The Return / Возвращение (by Nicholas Sparks, 2020) - аудиокнига на английском

To the Van Wie family Jeff, Torri, Anna, Audrey, and Ava Prologue 2019 The church resembles an alpine chapel, the kind you might find in the mountains outside Salzburg, and inside the cool air is welcoming. Because it’s August in the South, the temperature is sweltering, made worse by the suit and tie I’m wearing. In my daily life, I generally don’t wear suits. They’re uncomfortable and as a physician, I’ve learned that my patients respond better to me when I’m dressed more casually, as they tend to be. I’m here to attend a wedding. I’ve known the bride for more than five years now, though I’m not sure that she would consider us friends. Though we’d spoken regularly for more than a year after she left New Bern, our relationship since then has been limited to a couple of texts every now and then, sometimes instigated by her, sometimes by me. We do, however, have an undeniable bond, one that has its roots in events that occurred years ago. Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember the man I was when our paths first crossed, but isn’t that normal? Life endlessly offers us chances to set new directions and in the process we grow and change; when we look in the rearview mirror, we catch a glimpse of former selves who sometimes seem unrecognizable. Some things haven’t changed—my name, for instance—but I’m thirty-seven now and in the early stages of a new career, one I’d never considered in the first three decades of my life. While I’d once loved the piano, I no longer play the instrument; where I’d grown up with a loving family, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of them. There are reasons for that, but I’ll get to those parts later. Today, I’m simply glad to be here, and to have made it on time. My flight from Baltimore had been delayed and the line to pick up my rental car was long. Though I’m not the last to arrive, the church is more than half full and I find a seat in the third row from the back, doing my best to slip in unobserved. The pews in front of me are filled with women wearing the kind of hats you expect to find at the Kentucky Derby, extravagant confections of bows and flowers that goats might enjoy eating. The sight makes me smile, a reminder that in the South, there are always moments when it’s possible to slip into a world that seems to exist nowhere else. As I continue to take in my surroundings, the sight of flowers also makes me think about bees. Bees have been part of my life for most of my living memory. They are remarkable and wonderful creatures, endlessly interesting to me. These days, I tend to more than a dozen beehives—it’s much less work than you might imagine—and I’ve come to believe that the bees take care of me in the same way they take care of everyone. Without them, human life would nearly be impossible, since we rely on bees for a large part of our entire food supply. There’s something impossibly wonderful about that concept, that life as we know it can come down to something as simple as a bee making its way from one plant to another. It makes me believe my part-time hobby is important in the grand scheme of things, and yet, I further understand that tending beehives also led me here, to this small-town church, far from the landmarks of home. Of course, my story—like any good story—is also the story of events and circumstances and other people as well, including a pair of old-timers who liked to sit in rocking chairs in front of an old mercantile store in North Carolina. Most important, it’s the story of two different women, though one was really just a girl at the time. I’m the first to notice that when others tell their stories, they tend to frame them in ways that make them the star. I’ll probably fall into the same trap, but I’d like to offer the caveat that most of the events still strike me as accidental—throughout my telling, please remember that I regard myself as no kind of hero. As for the ending of this story, I suppose this wedding is a coda of sorts. Five years ago, I would have been hard-pressed to say whether the conclusion of these intertwining tales was a happy, tragic, or bittersweet one. And now? Frankly, I’m even less certain, as I’ve come here wondering whether the story might in some winding fashion pick up exactly where it left off. To understand what I mean, you’ll have to travel back in time with me, to revisit a world that despite all that has happened in the intervening years, still feels close enough to touch. Chapter 1 2014 I first noticed the girl walking past my house the day after I’d moved in. Over the next month and a half, I saw her shuffle by a few times a week, head down and shoulders hunched. For a long time, neither of us said a word to each other. I suspected she was in her teens—something about the way she carried herself suggested she was struggling beneath the twin burdens of low self-esteem and irritation at the world—but at thirty-two I’d reached the age where it was almost impossible for me to tell. Aside from noting her long brown hair and wide-set eyes, the only thing I knew for sure about her was that she lived in the trailer park up the road and that she liked to walk. Or more likely, she had to walk, because she didn’t own a car. The April skies were clear, the temperature hovering in the low seventies, with just enough breeze to carry the perfumed aroma of flowers. The dogwoods and azaleas in the yard had roared into bloom almost overnight, framing the gravel road that wound past my grandfather’s house just outside New Bern, North Carolina, a place I’d recently inherited. And I, Trevor Benson, convalescing physician and disabled veteran by profession, was shaking mothballs from a box along the base of the front porch, lamenting that it wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my morning. The problem with doing chores around the house was never knowing quite when you might be finished, since there was always something else that needed to be done…or whether fixing up the old place was even worthwhile at all. The house—and I used the term loosely—wasn’t much by way of appearance and the years had taken their toll. My grandfather built it himself after returning from World War II, and though he could build things to last, he didn’t have a lot of talent when it came to design. The house was a rectangle with porches on the front and back—two bedrooms, kitchen, family room, and two bathrooms; the cedar siding had faded to a grayish silver over the years, mimicking my grandfather’s hair. The roof had been patched, air seeped through the windows, and the kitchen floor slanted to the point that if liquid spilled, it became a tiny river that flowed to the door that led to the back porch. I like to think it made cleaning up easier for my grandfather, who’d lived by himself the last thirty years of his life. The property, however, was special. It was a shade over six acres, with an aging, slightly tilting barn and a honey shed—where my grandfather harvested his honey—and dotted with seemingly every flowering plant known to mankind, including clover patches and wildflowers. From now until the end of summer, the property would resemble a ground-level fireworks display. It was also situated on Brices Creek, where dark, brackish water flowed so slowly that it often reflected the sky like a mirror. Sunsets turned the creek into a cacophony of burgundy and red and orange and yellow, while the slowly fading rays pierced the curtain of Spanish moss draped over the tree branches. The honey bees loved the place, which had been my grandfather’s intent, since I’m pretty sure he loved bees more than people. There were about twenty beehives on the property; he’d been a part-time apiarist all his life, and it often struck me that the hives were in better condition than either the house or the barn. I’d checked on the hives a few times from a distance since my arrival here, and though it was still early in the season, I could tell the colonies were healthy. The bee population was growing rapidly, as it always did in spring—I could actually hear them buzzing if I listened—and I’d left them to their own devices. Instead, I’d spent most of my time rendering the house livable again. I cleaned out the cupboards, setting aside a few jars of honey to keep, and tossing the remainder—a box of stale crackers, nearly empty jars of peanut butter and jelly, and a bag of dried-out apples. The drawers were crammed with junk—out-of-date coupons, half-used candles, magnets, and pens that didn’t work, all of which went into the garbage. The refrigerator was mostly empty and oddly clean, without any of the moldy items or disgusting smells I’d expected. I purged a ton of junk from the house—most of the furniture was half a century old, and my grandfather had a minor hoarding issue—and then hired various crews to do the more difficult work. I had had a contractor do a cosmetic remodel on one of the bathrooms; a plumber fixed the leak in the kitchen faucet; I had the floors sanded and stained, the interior painted; and last but not least, I had the back door replaced. It was cracked near the jamb and had been boarded over. Then, after bringing in a crew to clean the place from top to bottom, I got my laptop set up with Wi-Fi and picked up some furniture for the living room and bedroom, as well as a new television for the family room. The original television had rabbit ears antennae and was the size of a treasure chest. Goodwill declined the donation of my grandfather’s used furniture, despite my argument that it could all be regarded as antiques, so it ended up at the dump. The porches were in relatively good shape, though, and I spent most of my mornings and evenings there. Which is how and why I’d started with the mothballs. Spring in the South isn’t only about flowers and honey bees and pretty sunsets, especially when you live adjacent to a creek in what seemed like the wilderness. Because it had been warmer than usual recently, snakes had begun to wake from their winter slumber. I’d spotted a big one on the back porch when I’d wandered outside that morning with my coffee. After having the bejesus scared out of me and spilling half the coffee down the front of my shirt, I quickly ducked back inside the house. I had no idea whether the snake was poisonous or what kind it was. I’m not a snake expert. But unlike some people—my grandfather, for instance—I didn’t want to kill it, either. I just wanted it to stay away from my house and live over there. I knew that snakes did useful things—like killing mice, which I’d heard scurrying in the walls at night. The sound creeped me out; despite spending every summer here when I was a kid, I’m not used to country living. I’d always considered myself more of a condo-in-the-city guy, which is what I had been, right up until the explosion that blew up not only my entire world, but me as well. Which was why I was convalescing in the first place, but more on that later. For now, though, let’s get back to the snake. After changing shirts, I vaguely remembered that my grandfather used mothballs to keep snakes away. He was convinced that mothballs had magic powers to repel all kinds of things—bats, mice, bugs, and snakes—and he would buy the stuff by the case. I’d spotted plenty of them in the barn, and figuring my grandfather must have known something, I seized a box and began to scatter them liberally around the house, first in the back and along the sides, then finally in the front. That was when I again spied the girl trudging down the road that led past the house. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and when I lifted my gaze, she must have felt my eyes on her because she glanced in my direction. She didn’t smile or wave; instead, she ducked her head as if hoping to avoid acknowledging my presence. I shrugged and went back to work, if dropping mothballs could actually be considered work. For whatever reason, though, I found myself thinking about the trailer park where she lived. It was at the end of the road, about a mile away. Out of curiosity, I’d walked down there shortly after I’d arrived. It had sprung up since the last time I’d visited, and I suppose I wanted to know who the new neighbors were. My first thought upon seeing it was that it made my grandfather’s place look like the Taj Mahal. Six or seven ancient and decrepit trailers appeared to have been dropped haphazardly on a dirt lot; in the far corner were the remains of another trailer that had caught fire, leaving only a black, partially melted husk that had never been cleared away. In between the trailers, clotheslines drooped between slanting poles. Scrawny chickens pecked an obstacle course of cars on blocks and rusting appliances, avoiding only a feral pit bull chained to an old discarded bumper. The dog had teeth the size of bacon and barked so ferociously at my presence that spittle flew from its foaming mouth. Not a nice doggy, I remembered thinking. Part of me wondered why anyone would choose to live in a place like this, but then again, I already knew the answer. On my walk back home, I felt pity for the tenants and then chastised myself for being a snob because I knew I’d been luckier than most, at least when it came to money. “Do you live here?” I heard a voice ask. Glancing up, I saw the girl. She’d doubled back and was standing a few yards away, clearly keeping her distance, but close enough for me to notice a spray of light freckles on cheeks that were so pale as to seem almost translucent. On her arms I noted a couple of bruises, like she’d bumped into something. She wasn’t particularly pretty and there was something unfinished about her, which made me think again that she was a teenager. Her wary gaze suggested that she was prepared to run if I made the smallest move toward her. “I do now,” I said, offering a smile. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.” “The old man died. The one who used to live here. His name was Carl.” “I know. He was my grandfather.” “Oh.” She slipped a hand into her back pocket. “He gave me honey.” “That sounds like something he’d do.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but it struck me as the right thing to say. “He used to eat at the Trading Post,” she said. “He was always nice.” Slow Jim’s Trading Post was one of those ramshackle stores so ubiquitous in the South and had been around longer than I’d been alive. My grandfather used to bring me there whenever I visited. It was the size of a three-car garage with a covered porch out front, and it sold everything from gas to milk and eggs, to fishing equipment, live bait, and auto parts. There were old-fashioned gas pumps out front—no credit or debit accepted—and a grill that served hot food. Once, I remember finding a bag of plastic toy soldiers wedged between a bag of marshmallows and a box of fishing hooks. There was little rhyme or reason to the offerings on the shelves or displayed on the walls, but I always thought it was one of the coolest stores ever. “Do you work there?” She nodded before pointing at the box in my hand. “Why are you putting mothballs around the house?” I stared at the box in my hand, realizing that I’d forgotten I was holding it. “There was a snake on my porch this morning. I’ve heard that mothballs will keep them away.” She pursed her lips before taking a step backward. “Okay, then. I just wanted to know if you were living here now.” “I’m Trevor Benson, by the way.” At the sound of my name, she stared at me. Working up the courage to ask the obvious. “What happened to your face?” I knew she was referring to the thin scar that ran from my hairline to my jaw, which reinforced the impression of her youth. Adults usually wouldn’t bring it up. Instead, they’d pretend they hadn’t noticed. “Mortar round in Afghanistan. A few years back.” “Oh.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Did it hurt?” “Yes.” “Oh,” she said again. “I guess I’ll get going now.” “All right,” I said. She started back toward the road before suddenly turning around again. “It won’t work,” she called out. “What won’t work?” “The mothballs. Snakes don’t give a lick about mothballs.” “You know that for sure?” “Everyone knows it.” Tell that to my grandfather, I thought. “Then what should I do? If I don’t want snakes on my porch?” She seemed to consider her answer. “Maybe you should live in a place where there aren’t any snakes.” I laughed. She was an odd one, for sure, but I realized that it was the first time I’d laughed since I’d moved here, maybe my first laugh in months. “Nice meeting you.” I watched her go, surprised when she slowly pirouetted. “I’m Callie,” she called out. “Nice to meet you, Callie.” When she finally vanished from view, blocked by the azaleas, I debated whether to continue putting out mothballs. I had no idea whether she was right or wrong, but in the end, I chose to call it a day. I was in the mood for some lemonade and wanted to sit on the back porch and relax, if only because my psychiatrist recommended that I take time to relax while I still had time. He said it would help me keep The Darkness away. * * * My psychiatrist sometimes used flowery language like The Darkness to describe PTSD, also known as post-traumatic stress disorder. When I asked him why, he explained that every patient was different and that part of his job was to find words that accurately reflected the mood and feelings of the patient in a way that would lead the patient along the slow path toward recovery. Since he’d been working with me, he’d referred to my PTSD as turmoil, issues, struggle, the butterfly effect, emotion dysregulation, trigger sensitivity, and of course, The Darkness. It kept our sessions interesting, and I had to admit that darkness was about as accurate a description of the way I’d been feeling as any of them. For a long time after the explosion, my mood was dark, as black as the night sky without stars or a moon, even if I didn’t fully realize why. Early on, I was stubbornly in denial about PTSD, but then again, I’d always been stubborn. In all candor, my anger, depression, and insomnia made perfect sense to me at the time. Whenever I glanced in the mirror, I was reminded of what had happened at Kandahar Airfield on September 9, 2011, when a rocket aimed at the hospital where I was working impacted near the entrance, only seconds after I’d exited the building. There is a bit of irony in my choice of words, since glancing in the mirror isn’t the same as it once was. I was blinded in my right eye, which means I have no depth perception. Staring at a reflection of myself feels a little like watching swimming fish on an old computer screen saver—almost real, but not quite—and even if I were able to get past that, my other wounds are as obvious as a lone flag planted atop Mount Everest. I’ve already mentioned the scar on my face, but shrapnel left my torso pockmarked like the moon. The pinkie and ring finger on my left hand were blown off—particularly unfortunate since I’m a lefty—and I lost my left ear as well. Believe it or not, that was the wound that bothered me the most about my appearance. A human head doesn’t look natural without an ear. I looked strangely lopsided and it wasn’t until that moment that I’d ever really appreciated my ear at all. In the rare times I thought about my ears, it was always in the context of hearing things. But try wearing sunglasses with just one ear and you’ll understand why I felt the loss acutely. I haven’t yet mentioned the spinal injuries, which meant having to learn how to walk again, or the thrumming headaches that lingered for months, all of which left me a physical wreck. But the good doctors at Walter Reed fixed me up. Well, most of me, anyway. As soon as I was upright again, my care shifted to my old alma mater Johns Hopkins, where the cosmetic surgeries were performed. I now have a prosthetic ear—so well done I can hardly tell it’s fake—and my eye appears normal, even if it’s completely useless. They couldn’t do much about the fingers—they were fertilizer in Afghanistan by then—but a plastic surgeon was able to diminish the size of my facial scar to the thin, white line that it now is. It’s noticeable, but it’s not as though little kids scream at the sight of me. I like to tell myself that it adds character, that beneath the surface of the suave and debonair man before you exists a man of intensity and courage, who has experienced and survived real danger. Or something like that. Still, along with my body, my entire life was blown up as well, including my career. I didn’t know what to do with myself or my future; I didn’t know how to handle the flashbacks or insomnia or my hair-trigger anger, or any of the other crazy symptoms associated with PTSD. Things went from bad to worse until I hit rock bottom—think a four-day bender, where I woke covered in vomit—and I finally realized that I needed help. I found a psychiatrist named Eric Bowen, who was an expert in CBT and DBT, or cognitive and dialectical behavioral therapies. In essence, both CBT and DBT focus on behaviors as a way to help control or manage what you’re thinking or feeling. If you’re feeling put-upon, force yourself to stand up straight; if you’re feeling overwhelmed because you’re faced with a complex task, try to lessen that sensation with simple tasks of things you can do, like starting with the first easy step, and then, after that, doing the next simple thing. It takes a lot of work to modify behavior—and there are a lot of other aspects to CBT and DBT—but slowly but surely I started to get my act back together. With that came thoughts of the future. Dr. Bowen and I discussed all sorts of career options, but in the end, I realized that I missed the practice of medicine. I contacted Johns Hopkins and applied for another residency. This time, in psychiatry. I think Bowen was flattered by that. Long story short, strings were pulled—maybe because I’d been there before, maybe because I was a disabled vet—and exceptions were granted. I was accepted as a psychiatric resident, with a start date in July. Not long after I’d received the congratulatory notification from Johns Hopkins, I learned that my grandfather had had a stroke. It occurred in Easley, South Carolina, a town I’d never heard him mention before. I was urged to come to the hospital quickly, as he didn’t have much time left. I couldn’t fathom why he was there. As far as I knew, he hadn’t left New Bern in years. By the time I got there and found him in the hospital, he could barely speak; it was all he could do to choke out a single word at a time. Even those were hard to understand. He said some odd things to me, things that hurt me even if they made no sense, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was trying to communicate something important before he finally passed away. As his only remaining family, it was up to me to make the funeral arrangements. I was certain he wanted to be buried in New Bern. I had him transported back to his hometown, set up a small graveside service, which had more attendees than I’d imagined there would be, and spent a lot of time at his house, wandering the property and wrestling with my grief and guilt. Because my parents were so busy with their own lives, I’d spent most of my summers growing up in New Bern, and I missed my grandfather with an ache that felt like a physical vise. He was funny, he was wise and kind, and he always made me feel older and smarter than I really was. When I was eight, he let me take a puff from his corncob pipe; he taught me how to fly-fish and let me help whenever he repaired an engine. He taught me everything about bees and beekeeping, and when I was a teenager, he told me that one day, I would meet a woman who would change my life forever. When I asked how I would know if I’d met the right one, he winked and told me that if I wasn’t sure, then I’d better just keep on looking. Somehow, with all that had happened since Kandahar, I hadn’t made time to visit him during the past few years. I know he worried about my condition, but I hadn’t wanted to share with him the demons I was battling. Hell, it was hard enough to talk about my life with Dr. Bowen, and even though I knew my grandfather wouldn’t judge me, it felt easier to keep my distance. It crushed me that he was taken before I had the chance to really reconnect with him. To top it off, a local attorney contacted me right after the funeral to let me know that I’d inherited my grandfather’s property, so I found myself the owner of the very home where I’d spent so many formative summers as a kid. In the weeks following the funeral, I spent a lot of time reflecting on all the words I’d left unspoken to the man who had loved me so unconditionally. My mind also kept returning to the odd things my grandfather had said to me on his deathbed, and I wondered why he’d been in Easley, South Carolina, in the first place. Did it have something to do with the bees? Was he visiting an old friend? Dating a woman? The questions continued to gnaw at me. I spoke to Dr. Bowen about it, and he suggested that I try to find the answers. The holidays passed without notice, and with the arrival of the new year I listed my condo with a realtor, thinking it might take a few months to sell. Lo and behold, I had an offer within days, and closed in February. Since I’d soon be moving to Baltimore for residency, it didn’t make sense to find a place to rent temporarily. I thought about my grandfather’s place in New Bern and figured, why not? I could get out of Pensacola, maybe get the old place ready to sell. If I was lucky, I might even be able to figure out why my grandfather had been in Easley, and what on earth he’d been trying to tell me. Which is how and why I found myself scattering mothballs outside his rattletrap old cabin. * * * I didn’t really have lemonade on the back porch. That’s how my grandfather used to refer to beer, and when I was little, one of the great thrills of my young life was getting him a lemonade from the icebox. Strangely, it always came in a bottle labeled Budweiser. I prefer Yuengling, from America’s oldest brewery. When I attended the Naval Academy, an upperclassman named Ray Kowalski introduced me to it. He was from Pottsville, Pennsylvania—home of the Yuengling Brewery—and he convinced me there was no finer beer. Interestingly, Ray was also the son of a coal miner and last I heard, he was serving on the USS Hawaii, a nuclear submarine. I guess he learned from his dad that when you’re working, sunlight and fresh air are overrated. I wonder what my mom and dad would have thought about my life these days. After all, I haven’t worked in more than two years. I’m pretty sure my dad would have been appalled; he was the kind of father who would sit me down for a lecture if I received an A? on an exam and was disappointed when I chose the Naval Academy over Georgetown, his alma mater, or Yale, where he’d received his law degree. He woke at five in the morning every day of the week, read both the Washington Post and the New York Times while having his coffee, then would head to DC, where he worked as a lobbyist for whatever company or industry group had hired him. A sharp mind and an aggressive negotiator, he lived to make a deal and could quote large sections of the tax code from memory. He was one of six partners who oversaw more than two hundred attorneys, and his walls were decorated with photographs of him with three different presidents, half a dozen senators, and too many congressmen to count. My dad didn’t simply work; his hobby was work. He spent seventy hours a week at the office and golfed with clients and politicians on the weekends. Once a month, he hosted a cocktail party at our home, with still more clients and politicians. In the evenings, he often secluded himself in his office, where there was always a pressing phone call to make, a brief to be written, a plan to be made. The idea of him kicking back on the porch and having a beer in the middle of the afternoon on a workday would have struck him as absurd, something a slacker might do, but never a Benson. There was nothing worse than being a slacker, in my father’s eyes. Though he wasn’t the nurturing type, he wasn’t a bad father. To be fair, my mother wasn’t exactly a cookie-baking, hands-on PTA member, either. A neurosurgeon trained at Johns Hopkins, she was frequently on call and was a good match for my father in her drive and passion for work. My grandfather always said she came out of the wrapper that way, belying her small-town background and the fact that neither of her parents went to college. But I never doubted her or my father’s love for me, even if we ate takeout for dinner every night and I attended more cocktail parties as a teenager than family camping trips. In any case, my family was hardly unusual for Alexandria. Everyone at my elite private school had high-powered and prosperous parents, and the culture of excellence and career success filtered down to their children. Stellar grades were the norm, but even that wasn’t enough. Kids were also expected to excel at sports or music or both and be popular to boot. I’ll admit I got sucked into all of it; by the time I was in high school, I felt the need to be…just like them. I dated popular girls, finished second in my class, made all-state soccer in my junior and senior years, and was proficient on the piano. At the Naval Academy, I started on the soccer team all four years, double majored in chemistry and mathematics, and did well enough on my MCATs to be accepted to Johns Hopkins for medical school, making my mother proud. Sadly, my parents weren’t around to watch me receive my diploma. The accident was something I don’t like to think about, nor do I like to tell others what happened. Most people don’t know what to say, conversation falters, and I’m usually left feeling even worse than had I said nothing about them at all. Then again, I sometimes wondered whether I just hadn’t told the story to the right person, or if that person was even out there. Someone should be able to empathize, right? What I can say, however, is that I’ve come to accept that life never turns out quite like one expects. Chapter 2 I know what you might be thinking: How can a guy who considered himself a mental and emotional basket case for the last two and a half years even think about becoming a psychiatrist? How can I help anyone if I’ve barely figured out my own life? Good questions. As for the answers…hell, I didn’t know. Maybe I’d never be able to help anyone. What I did know was that my options were somewhat limited. Anything surgical was out—what with the partial blindness and missing fingers and all—and I wasn’t interested in either family practice or internal medicine. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss surgery, though. I missed the raw way my hands felt after scrubbing, and the sound of the gloves snapping in place; I loved repairing bones and ligaments and tendons and feeling like I always knew exactly what I was doing. There was a kid in Kandahar about twelve years old who’d shattered his kneecap falling off a roof a couple of years earlier, and the local physicians had botched the operation so badly that he could barely walk. I had to rebuild the knee from scratch and six months later, when he returned for a checkup, he jogged toward me. I liked the way it made me feel—that I’d fixed him, allowing him to lead a normal life—and wondered whether psychiatry would ever give me that same satisfaction. Because who is ever really fixed when it comes to mental or emotional health? Life takes radical twists and turns, and hopes and dreams shift as people enter different phases of their lives. Yesterday, via Skype—we speak every Monday—Dr. Bowen reminded me that we’re all continual works in progress. I was musing about all of this as I stood over my grill later in the evening with the radio playing in the background. The sun was going down, illuminating a kaleidoscope sky as I flipped the NY strip I’d picked up from the Village Butcher on the far side of town. In the kitchen, I had a salad and baked potato ready to go, but if you’re thinking I’m some kind of chef, I’m not. I have a simple palate and I’m decent with the grill, but that’s about it. Since moving to New Bern, I’d been shoving charcoal into my grandfather’s old Weber three or four times a week and setting the coals ablaze. It made me nostalgic for all those summers of my childhood, when my grandfather and I grilled our suppers almost every night. When the steak was ready, I added it to my plate and sat at the table on the back porch. It was dark by then, the house lights glowing from within, and moonlight reflected off the still waters of Brices Creek. The steak was perfect, but my baked potato was a bit cold. I would have popped it in the microwave, except for the fact that the kitchen didn’t have a microwave. Though I’d made the house livable, I hadn’t yet decided on whether to renovate the kitchen, or put on a new roof, or seal the windows, or even fix the slant in the kitchen floor. If I decided to sell the place, I suspected that whoever bought it would tear down the old house, so they could put a custom home on the property. You didn’t need to be a real estate whiz to figure out that any value to the property was in the land, not the structure. After finishing my dinner, I brought the plate inside and set it in the sink. Opening a beer, I returned to the porch to do some reading. I had a stack of psychiatric books and textbooks I wanted to finish perusing before I moved to Baltimore, on subjects ranging from psychopharmaceuticals to the value and drawbacks associated with hypnosis. The more I’d been reading, the more I felt I had to learn. I had to admit my study skills were rusty; I sometimes felt like I was an old dog and these were new tricks. When I’d said as much to Dr. Bowen, he’d essentially told me to quit whining. Or that’s how I took it, anyway. I’d settled into the rocking chair, turned on the lamp, and had just started reading when I thought I heard a voice calling out from around the corner of the house. I turned down the radio, waited a beat, and heard the sound again. “Hello?” Rising from my seat, I grabbed my beer and moved to the porch railing. Peeking into the darkness, I called back. “Is someone there?” A moment later, a woman in uniform stepped into the light. Specifically, the uniform of a deputy sheriff. The sight caught me off guard. My experience with law enforcement to that point in my life was limited to highway patrolmen, two of whom had pulled me over for speeding in my younger years. Though I’d been apologetic and polite, each of them nonetheless gave me a ticket, and dealing with law enforcement ever since made me nervous. Even if I hadn’t done anything wrong. I didn’t say anything; I was too busy trying to figure out why a deputy sheriff was paying me a visit, while the other part of my brain was processing the fact that the uniformed officer was female. Call me a sexist, but I hadn’t interacted with many women in law enforcement, especially down here. “I’m sorry for coming around the side of the house,” she finally said. “I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me.” Her demeanor was friendly but professional. “I’m with the sheriff’s department.” “Can I help you?” Her eyes flickered to the grill, then back to me. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.” “Not at all.” I shook my head. “I just finished.” “Oh, good. And again, I apologize for intruding, Mr.…” “Benson,” I said. “Trevor Benson.” “I just came by to ask whether you’re a legal resident of this property.” I nodded, though I was a little surprised by the phrasing. “I guess so. It used to be my grandfather’s, but he passed away and left it to me.” “You mean Carl?” “You knew him?” “A little. And I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man.” “Yes, he was. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.” “Masterson,” she said. “Natalie Masterson.” She was quiet then, and I had a sense that she was studying me. “You said Carl was your grandfather?” “On my mother’s side.” “I think he mentioned you. You’re a surgeon, right? With the Navy?” “I was, but not anymore.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry—I’m still not exactly sure why you’ve come by.” “Oh.” She motioned toward the house. “I was finishing up my shift but I was out this way, and when I saw the lights on, I thought I’d check it out.” “Am I not allowed to turn on lights?” “No, it’s not that.” She smiled. “Obviously, everything is okay and I shouldn’t have bothered you. It’s just that a few months ago, after your grandfather had died, there were reports of lights in the windows. I knew the house was supposed to be empty, so I swung by to check it out. And though I couldn’t be certain, I had the impression that someone had been staying here. Not that there was any damage except for the back door, but combined with the lights being seen in the windows, I felt that I should keep an eye on the place. So I’ve made it a point to swing by every now and then, just to make sure there’s no one here that shouldn’t be. Vagrants or squatters, teens using the place to party, tweakers working a meth lab. Whatever.” “Is there a lot of that around here?” “No more than other places, I guess. But enough to keep us busy.” “Just so you know, I don’t do drugs.” She motioned toward the bottle I was holding. “Alcohol is a drug.” “Even beer?” When she smiled, I guessed she was a few years younger than me, with blond hair tacked up into a messy bun, and her eyes were so aqua colored that they could have been bottled and sold as mouthwash. That she was attractive went without saying, and better yet, she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “No comment,” she finally offered. “Would you like to come in and check out the house?” “No, that’s all right. I’m just glad I don’t have to worry anymore. I was fond of Carl. Whenever he was selling honey at the farmers’ market, we’d visit for a while.” I remembered sitting with my grandfather at a roadside stand every Saturday during my visits, but I had no recollection of a farmers’ market. Then again, New Bern had a lot more of everything now than it had in the past—restaurants, stores, businesses—even if it still remained a small town at heart. Alexandria, which was just a suburb in the DC area and one of many, had five or six times the population. Even there, I suspect Natalie Masterson would have turned heads. “What can you tell me about the possible squatter?” I asked. I didn’t really care about the squatter, but somehow I was reluctant to see her go. “Not much more than I already told you,” she said. “Do you think you might come up here?” I pleaded, pointing to my ear. “So I can hear you better? I was caught up in a mortar attack in Afghanistan.” I could hear her fine, by the way; the inner workings of my ear weren’t damaged in the blast, even if the outer part had been torn from my head. It’s just that I’m not above playing the sympathy card when I need to. I retreated to my rocker, hoping she hadn’t wondered why I seemed to be able to hear her without trouble only moments before. In the porch light, I saw her eyeing my scar before she finally started up the steps. When she reached the other rocker, she angled it toward me, while also sliding it back. “I appreciate this,” I said. She smiled, not overly warm, but enough for me to realize she did indeed have suspicions about my hearing and was still debating whether to stay. It was also a wide enough smile to notice her white and perfectly straight teeth. “As I was saying…” “Are you comfortable?” I asked. “Can I offer you something to drink?” “I’m fine, thank you. I’m on duty, Mr. Benson.” “Call me Trevor. And please—start at the beginning.” She sighed, and I could have sworn I saw the trace of an eye roll. “There was a series of electrical storms last November, after Carl passed away. A lot of lightning, and at the trailer park down the road, one of the trailers caught fire. The fire department responded, so did I, and not long after the fire was out, one of the guys mentioned that he likes to go hunting on the far side of the creek. It was just small talk, you know?” I nodded, remembering the burned-out husk I’d noticed my first week here. “Anyway, I happened to bump into him a couple of weeks later, and he mentioned that he’d noticed lights in your grandfather’s house, not just once, but two or three times. Like a candle being carried past the windows. He was kind of far away and I wondered if it had been his imagination, but since it kept happening and he knew that Carl had died, he thought he should mention it.” “When would this have been?” “Last December, maybe midmonth? There was a week or two there when it was really cold, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if someone broke in just to stay warm. The next time I was in the area I stopped by and saw that the back door was broken and the knob had almost fallen off. I went inside and did a quick search, but the place was empty. Aside from the broken door, I didn’t find evidence that anyone had been inside. There was no trash, and the beds were made; as far as I could tell, nothing appeared to be missing. But…” She paused, frowning at the recollection. I took a sip of beer, waiting for her to go on. “There were a pair of used candles on the counter with blackened wicks, and a half-empty box of candles as well. I also noticed that some of the dust had been wiped away at the kitchen table, like someone had eaten there. It also seemed like someone had been using one of the recliners in the family room because there was cleared space on the neighboring side table and it was the only piece of furniture in the living room that wasn’t dusty. It wasn’t anything I could prove, but just in case, I found some extra boards in the barn and sealed the back door.” “Thanks for that,” I said. Though she nodded, I could tell something about those memories was still bothering her. She went on. “Did you happen to notice whether anything was missing when you moved in?” I thought about it before shaking my head. “Not that I could tell. Except for the funeral in October, I hadn’t been down here in a few years. And that week is a bit hazy in my memory.” “Was the back door intact then?” “I went in through the front, but I’m sure I checked all the locks when I left. I think I would have noticed if the back door was damaged. I know I spent time on the back porch.” “When did you move in?” “End of February.” She digested that, her eyes flashing to the back door. “You believe someone did break in, don’t you?” I finally asked. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Usually, when something like that occurs, things are broken and there’s trash strewn about. Bottles, food wrappers, detritus. And vagrants don’t usually make the bed before they leave.” She thrummed her fingers on the rocker. “Are you sure nothing was missing? Guns? Electronics? Did your grandfather keep cash around?” “My grandfather didn’t have much in the way of electronics or cash, as far as I know. And his gun was in the closet when I moved in. It’s still there, by the way. It’s a small shotgun to keep the varmints away.” “That makes it even stranger because usually, guns are the first things stolen.” “What do you make of it?” “I don’t know,” she said. “Either no one was there or you were visited by the tidiest and most honest vagrant in history.” “Should I be worried?” “Have you seen or heard anyone creeping around the property since you’ve moved in?” “No. And I’m frequently awake during the night.” “Insomnia?” “Some. But it’s getting better.” “Good,” she said, adding nothing more. She smoothed the pants of her uniform. “But I’ve taken enough of your time. That’s all I can really tell you.” “I appreciate you swinging by and telling me about all this. And for fixing the door.” “It wasn’t much of a fix.” “It did the job,” I said. “It was still boarded up when I got here. How much longer is your shift?” She glanced at her watch. “Actually, believe it or not, it’s over now.” “Then are you sure I can’t get you a drink?” “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I still have to drive home.” “Fair enough,” I said, “but before you go—and since you’re off, and I’m new in town—tell me what I need to know about New Bern these days. I haven’t been here in a while.” She paused, arching an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?” “Aren’t you supposed to protect and serve? Think of this as the serve part. Like fixing my door.” I tried out my most winning smile. “I don’t think that being a welcoming committee is part of my job description,” she deadpanned. Maybe not, I thought, but you haven’t left yet. “All right,” I said. “Tell me what made you want to become a sheriff.” With my question, she looked at me. Maybe, truly, for the first time, and again I found myself transfixed by the color of her eyes. They were like the waters of the Caribbean in an upscale travel magazine. “I’m not the sheriff. That’s an elected position. I’m a deputy.” “Are you avoiding my question?” “I’m wondering why you want to know.” “I’m a curious person. And since you helped me out, I feel like I should know at least a little about the person who did the helping.” “Why do I get the impression you have an ulterior motive?” Because you’re not only pretty, you’re obviously smart as well, I thought. I shrugged, feigning innocence. She studied me before finally responding. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself first.” “Fair enough. Ask away.” “I’m guessing that the mortar round is the reason you’re no longer in the Navy or a doctor?” “Yes,” I said. “I was hit by a mortar just as I was leaving the hospital where I worked. Lucky shot. Or, for me, unlucky. Fairly serious injuries. In the end, the Navy put me on disability and let me go.” “Tough break.” “It was,” I admitted. “And you’re in New Bern because…?” “It’s only a temporary stay,” I said. “I’m moving to Baltimore this summer. I’m starting a new residency in psychiatry.” “Really?” she asked. “Is there something wrong with psychiatry?” “Not at all. It’s just not what I expected you to say.” “I can be a good listener.” “It’s not that,” she said. “I’m sure you are. But why psychiatry?” “I want to work with veterans with PTSD,” I said. “I think there’s a need for it these days, especially with soldiers and marines doing four or five rotations. As I mentioned, it can stay with a person after they’re back.” She seemed to be attempting to read me. “Is that what happened with you?” “Yes.” She hesitated and I had the sense she continued to really see me. “Was it bad?” “No question,” I said. “Terrible. And it still is, every now and then. But that’s probably a story for another time.” “Fair enough,” she offered. “But now that I know, I’ll admit that I was wrong. It sounds like it’s exactly what you should do. How long is a psychiatric residency?” “Five years.” “I’ve heard residencies are hard.” “It’s no worse than being dragged by a car down the highway.” For the first time, she laughed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. But I do hope you find some time to enjoy our town while you’re here. It’s a beautiful place to live, and there are a lot of good people here.” “Did you grow up in New Bern?” “No,” she answered. “I grew up in a small town.” “That’s funny.” “But true,” she said. “Can I ask what you intend to do with the place? When you leave?” “Why? Are you interested in buying?” “No,” she said. “And I doubt I could afford it.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Where are you from, by the way? Give me a quick sketch of who you are.” Pleased that she was interested, I gave her a brief history: my youth in Alexandria, my parents, my regular summertime visits to New Bern when I was younger. High school, college, medical school and residency. My time with the Navy. All with a touch of the modest hyperbole men use when trying to impress an attractive woman. As she listened, her eyebrows twitched more than once, but I couldn’t tell whether she was fascinated or amused. “So you’re a city boy.” “I beg to differ,” I protested. “I’m from the suburbs.” Her lips turned up slightly at the corners, but I couldn’t read the intent behind it. “What I don’t understand is why you went to the Naval Academy. If you were such a brilliant student, I mean, and were accepted at Yale and Georgetown?” Brilliant? Did I actually use that word earlier? “I wanted to prove to myself that I could make it without my parents’ help. Financially, I mean.” “But didn’t you say they were rich?” Oh, yeah. I vaguely remember saying that, too. “Well-to-do, I should have said.” “So it was a pride thing?” “And service to our country.” She nodded slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Good.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “There are a lot of active duty military in the area, as you probably know. Cherry Point, Camp Lejeune…many of them have spent time in Afghanistan and Iraq.” I nodded. “When I was posted overseas, I worked with doctors and nurses from every region of the country, in all sorts of specialties, and I learned a ton from them. While it lasted, anyway. And we did a lot of good, too. Most of our work was with locals—many of them had never been seen by a doctor before the hospital opened.” She seemed to consider my words. A chorus of crickets sounded in the silence before I heard her voice again. “I don’t know that I could have done what you did.” I tilted my head. “I’m not sure what you mean.” “Experiencing the horrors of war every single day. And knowing there are some people who are beyond your power to help. I don’t think I would be able to handle something like that. Not in the long run, anyway.” As she spoke, I had the impression she was sharing something personal, though I’d heard the same thing from others before, in regard to both the military and medicine in general. “I’m sure you’ve seen some terrible things as a deputy.” “I have.” “And yet you still do it.” “Yes,” she said. “And sometimes I wonder how long I’ll be able to continue. There are times when I fantasize about opening a flower shop or something like that.” “Why don’t you?” “Who knows? Maybe one day I will.” Again, she grew quiet. Sensing her distraction, I broke her reverie with a lighthearted prompt. “Since you won’t give me a rundown of what’s new in town, at least tell me what your favorite place is?” “Oh…I don’t go out that much,” she demurred. “Except for the farmers’ market downtown. It’s open Saturday mornings. But if you’re trying to find some excellent honey, you’ll probably be out of luck.” “I’m sure my grandfather still has plenty.” “You don’t know for sure?” “There are a few jars in the cupboard, but I haven’t checked the honey shed yet. I’ve been too busy fixing up the place. I mean, a palace like this doesn’t just happen by accident.” This time she smiled, if a tad reluctantly. She nodded toward the dock. “Have you gone out in the boat yet?” I haven’t yet mentioned the boat, but suffice it to say that it was a lot like the house, only in worse condition. Even calling it a boat was somewhat generous, because it looked less like a boat than an outhouse and two vinyl recliners, all bolted to a floating platform. My grandfather built it using discarded oil drums and lumber of varying sizes—along with whatever else he could find—and when he wasn’t checking on the bees, he was always tinkering with it. “Not yet. I’m not sure the engine even works.” “I know it was working last summer, because Carl told me. It’s kind of a hard boat to miss and your grandfather loved to take it out. People take photos of it whenever they see it.” “It is a bit eccentric, isn’t it?” “It suited him, though.” “Yes,” I admitted. “It did.” She sighed and stood. “I really should be going. I’ve got some things to do at home. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Benson.” Mr. Benson? I had hoped we’d moved beyond that, but I guess not. She started down the steps, reaching the bottom in the same instant my brain finally kicked back into gear. “You don’t have to walk around the back and side of the house. You can go through to the front door if it’s easier.” “Thank you, but I’ll just retrace my steps. Have a good evening.” “You too. And it was nice meeting you, Natalie.” She raised an eyebrow before turning away; with a couple of quick steps, she vanished from sight. After a few beats, I heard a door slam in the driveway and her vehicle start up. All of which left me contemplating the intriguing Natalie Masterson. That she was beautiful, anyone would notice, but what I found interesting about her was how little she’d told me about herself. It’s been said that women are the mysterious sex, and even now, my first inclination is to laugh when a guy I’m talking to says he understands what makes women tick. I was flummoxed by the one-sided nature of the conversation. I’d told her a lot about myself but had learned almost nothing about her. I did, however, have a hunch that I would see her again, if only because I knew just where I might find her. Chapter 3 In the morning I went for a run, something I hadn’t been consistent about since arriving in town. I would tell myself that I had more important things to do—like spreading mothballs to keep snakes away—but the simple truth is that I don’t always enjoy exercising. I know all the benefits—I’m a doctor, remember?—but unless I was chasing or dribbling a soccer ball, running always seemed kind of silly to me. But I did it. Six miles at a steady pace; when I finished, I did a hundred push-ups and sit-ups. After a quick shower and a bite to eat, I was ready to face the day. Of course, since I technically had no real responsibilities, I decided on another quick survey of the house to check if anything was missing. Which was something of an impossible task, since I hadn’t known what had been in the house when he’d left town, and I’d already cleaned out the place. In the closet, I spotted the shotgun again and found the shells; there was no other ammunition, which led me to believe there’d been no other weapons. In a box under the bed in the guest room, however, I discovered a wad of cash wrapped in a rubber band, beneath a thick envelope that held various documents and photographs of my grandmother’s—social security card, medical records concerning her epilepsy, things like that. It wasn’t a lot of money—enough for a couple of fancy dinners maybe—but definitely enough to entice someone who might want money for drugs or booze. Had someone been there, it would have been stolen, right? Which meant that the place had likely remained unoccupied. And yet the door had been broken… I shook my head. Either way, even if someone had been there, they were long gone by now, so I put it out of my mind and decided to hit the books on the back porch for a while. Unfortunately they weren’t exactly page-turners, and after a couple of hours, I’d had enough. On the plus side, no snakes appeared, which made me wonder whether Callie had known what she was talking about. I’ll admit that my mind wandered at times toward the lovely Natalie Masterson. She was an enigma, and I kept picturing the amused flicker I saw in her eyes as I related my slightly embellished history. But thinking about my conversation with Natalie also reminded me of the bees and the boat, which turned my thoughts to my grandfather, and it brought to mind my last visit here. At the time, I’d been a resident and while others were heading off to the Caribbean or Cancun for well-deserved respites, I made the drive from Baltimore to New Bern, seeking the comfort and abiding love that I had always sought from him as a child. He was his own cup of tea—the boat was a good example of his quirkiness—but he had limitless room in his heart for unsheltered souls. He was the kind of guy who’d feed whatever strays happened to drift onto his property; he’d set out a line of bowls near the barn, and various dogs from God knows where would begin showing up. He named the ones that stuck around after cars…As a kid, I played fetch with dogs named Cadillac, Edsel, or Ford, Chevy and Pinto. Oddly, he also named one Winnebago—it was a tiny thing, some sort of terrier—and when I asked him why, he winked and declared, “Look at the size of him!” In his working life, he’d been employed at the mill, turning logs into usable lumber. Like me, he finished his life with fewer fingers than when he started; unlike me, it didn’t cause his career to come crashing to an end. He used to tell me that unless a man has lost a finger on the job, it wasn’t a real job, which makes the idea that he raised my mother—a sophisticated, ambitious, cerebral woman if there ever was one—rather astounding. When I was younger, I used to suspect my mother had been adopted, but as I matured I eventually came to recognize that they shared an innate optimism and decency that informed everything they did. My grandfather hadn’t had an easy time after my grandmother had died. I don’t remember her at all, as I was still toddling around in diapers the only time we met. But I can recall my mom emphasizing that it was important to visit him, so that he wasn’t always alone. For my grandfather, there was only one woman; he’d loved once and for all, right up until an epileptic seizure took her life. There’s still a photograph of her on the wall of the bedroom, and after moving in, I couldn’t imagine taking it down, even though I never knew her. That she was my grandfather’s North Star was more than enough reason to keep it hanging exactly where it was But it was odd being at the house. It felt empty without my grandfather and wandering into the barn deepened the feeling of loss. It had the same cluttered atmosphere as the house I’d inherited. Inside were not only mothballs and a wide assortment of tools, but an old tractor, numerous engine parts, bags of sand, pickaxes, shovels, a rusting bicycle, an Army helmet, a cot and blanket that looked as though someone had actually slept there, and countless remnants of a lifetime of collecting things. I sometimes wondered whether my grandfather had ever thrown anything away, but close inspection revealed no trash, ancient magazines, newspapers, or debris that belonged in a garbage can; there were only items that he felt he might one day need for whatever project he was working on. On the night I received the call from the hospital, I wasn’t doing much of anything. There was no reason I couldn’t have visited him that week, or a month or even a year earlier. Or even, I knew, when I’d been at my very worst. He’d never been a man to judge, and even less likely when it came to the effects of war on a person. At twenty he’d been shipped to North Africa; in the years that followed he’d fought in Italy, France, and then Germany. He’d been wounded at the Battle of the Bulge, only to return to his unit not long after the Army crossed the Rhine. I knew nothing about any of it from him, since he never spoke about the war. My mom mentioned it, though, and a few days after my arrival here, I discovered the records, along with his Purple Heart and various service medals. According to my mom, he got interested in bees not long after he built the house. Back then, there’d been a farm up the road and my grandfather had worked there, before getting a job at the mill. The farmer had beehives but didn’t like tending to them. My grandfather was put on the task. Since he knew nothing about beekeeping, he checked out a book from the library and eventually learned the rest on his own. To him, they represented an almost perfect species, and he’d hold forth on the subject to anyone who would listen. I’m sure he would have told the doctors and nurses at the hospital in Easley about them if he’d had the chance. But he didn’t. As soon as I got the call, I booked a flight to Greenville, South Carolina, via Charlotte. There, I rented a car and sped down the highway; despite all that, I arrived nearly eighteen hours after I’d heard what happened. By then, he’d been in the ICU for more than three days. It had taken that long to learn my name; the stroke first left him unconscious, and then largely unable to speak. The entire right side of his body was paralyzed, the left side only slightly better. As soon as I entered the ICU, I took note of the readings on the various monitors and after scanning the chart, I knew he didn’t have much longer to live. The bed seemed to dwarf him. I know it’s a clich?—that this is something that practically everyone says—but in his case, it was true. He’d lost a lot of weight since I’d seen him last, and the slack, lopsided expression on his face, even as he slept, nearly broke my heart. I took a seat near the bed and reached for his hand; it felt bony and brittle, birdlike, and I felt my throat lock up. All at once, I hated myself for not getting there sooner; I hated myself for staying away for so long. For a long time, the only movement I saw was the labored rise and fall of his chest. I talked to him, even though I wasn’t sure if he heard me. Quite a bit, if I remember correctly—making up for all the intervening years when I’d been too wrapped up in my own struggles to visit him. I told him about the explosion in Kandahar, and the trauma I experienced in the aftermath. I told him about Sandra—my most recent girlfriend—and our breakup. I told him that I was planning to begin another residency. And I thanked him, once again, for simply being there—as my real family, even if I’d taken him for granted at times—both before and after the death of my parents. One of the nurses informed me that since his arrival, the only words he’d spoken were my name and Pensacola, which was how they were finally able to track me down. They told me that he’d been able to open his eyes and had tried to speak on occasion, only to rasp out unintelligible sounds. Still other times, he’d stared at them in bewilderment, as though he hadn’t known where or even who he was. I was upset and worried, but also confused. Why was he here, in Easley, South Carolina? How had he gotten here? In all the time I’d known him, he’d never traveled as far west as Raleigh, and he’d come to Alexandria only once. After the war, and until just a few days earlier, I was fairly certain he hadn’t left the county in years. But Easley was a long way from New Bern. Six or seven hours on the interstate, maybe more, depending on traffic. At the time, my grandfather was ninety-one years old; where had he been going? I would have suspected Alzheimer’s, except for the fact that in his letters, he’d seemed as lucid and thoughtful as ever. He’d always been good at that—writing letters to me—and while I answered a few of them, I usually ended up phoning him after receiving one of his missives. It was easier for me, and I can be lazy about some things, like putting pen to paper; I’m not proud of it, but that’s who I am. On the phone he was as clearheaded as ever. Older, of course, and maybe taking a bit longer to find the word he wanted, but certainly nothing that would indicate dementia severe enough to prompt a journey to a place he’d never mentioned before. But staring at him as he lay unconscious made me wonder whether I was wrong about all of it. In the late-afternoon light, his skin took on a grayish pallor; by the evening, his breathing sounded painful. Though visiting hours were over, the staff at the hospital didn’t kick me out. I’m not sure why—perhaps because I was a physician, or because they could tell how much I cared for him. As nightfall came and went, I continued to sit with him, holding his hand and talking to him the entire time. By morning, I was exhausted. One of the nurses brought me coffee, reminding me despite my exhaustion that there are good people everywhere. My grandfather’s physician came by on his rounds; I could tell by his expression after checking my grandfather that he was thinking the same thing I was: The kind, old man was entering the final stages of his life. Maybe hours left, maybe a day, but not much more than that. It was around noon on that last day that my grandfather shifted slightly in his bed, his eyes fluttering halfway open. As he attempted to focus, I noticed the same confusion the nurses had described, and I leaned closer to his bed, squeezing his hand. “Hey, Grandpa, I’m here. Can you hear me?” He turned his head, only a little, but as much as he could. “It’s me, Trevor. You’re in the hospital.” He blinked slowly. “Tre…vor.” “Yeah, Grandpa, it’s me. I came as soon as I heard. Where were you going?” I felt him squeeze my hand. “Help…care…and…” “Of course,” I said. “They’re taking good care of you.” “If…you…can…” Each word croaked out between ragged breaths. “Collapsed…” “Yes, Grandpa. You had a stroke.” As I said it, I wondered if he’d been more ill than I suspected; in that same instant, I recalled that his wife had had epilepsy. “Sick.” “You’ll be okay,” I lied. “And we’ll go take care of the bees and take the boat out, okay? Just you and me. It’ll be like old times.” “Like…Rose…” I squeezed his hand again, hating his confusion, hating that he didn’t know what had happened to him. “Your beautiful bride.” “Find…family…” I didn’t have the heart to remind him that his wife and daughter had long since passed away, that I was the only family he had left. “You’ll see Rose soon,” I promised. “I know how much she loved you. And how much you loved her. She’ll be waiting for you.” “Go…to…hell…” I froze, wondering if I’d heard him right. If he was attempting some kind of joke, it was one that would be out of character for him. “It’s okay, I’m here,” I repeated. “And…run…away.” “I’m not leaving you,” I said. “I’m staying right here. I love you,” I said, bringing his wizened hand to my face. His expression softened. “Love…you…” I could feel the wellspring of tears beginning to form and tried to keep them at bay. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known.” “You…came…” “Of course I came.” “Now go…” “No,” I said. “I’m going to stay right here. For as long as it takes, I’m staying with you.” “Please,” he whispered, and then his eyes closed. That was the last thing he said to me. Less than two hours later, he took his final breath. * * * On the night he died, as I lay awake in a nearby hotel, I relived those last moments with my grandfather. I puzzled over the things he’d said, finally sitting up in bed to write them down on the notepad next to the phone, combining some of the words into phrases that I thought made the most sense. Trevor…help care…and…if you can…collapsed…sick…like Rose…find family…go to hell…and run away…love you…you came…now go…please There’d been a bit of rambling, some disassociation, but at least he’d recognized me. He’d told me that he loved me, and for that I was grateful. I’d told him that I wouldn’t leave, and I was glad I hadn’t. The thought that he might have died alone was nearly enough to break my heart. After I’d finished the note, I folded the paper and stuck it in my wallet, continuing to ponder it. Of all that he’d said, telling me to go to hell was the one thing I couldn’t quite understand. Although I’d assured him he’d see Rose again soon, my grandfather had never been particularly religious. I wasn’t sure what he believed with regard to the afterlife, but I was glad I’d said it. Whether he believed it or not, it was what I think he wanted to hear. * * * Rising from my seat on the porch, I descended the steps, heading for the dock. Like the boat, the dock wasn’t much, yet somehow it had survived countless hurricanes since it was built. As I approached, I caught sight of the dry rot and stepped cautiously onto the ancient boards, wary that I might crash through to the water any second. But the boards held, and I eventually hopped onto the boat. It was a boat that no one but my grandfather could have built. The outhouse portion, which my grandfather called “the cockpit,” was located near the bow and had three walls, a crooked window, and an old wooden wheel he’d likely found at a thrift shop somewhere. Because he hadn’t known much about boat design, the act of getting anywhere on the boat was more art than science. The wheel and rudder were connected, but only loosely; turning left or right usually required three or four rotations of the wheel, and how he was able to get it officially registered as legal watercraft was beyond me. Behind the cockpit were the two vinyl rockers, a small table he’d bolted to the deck, as well as a pair of secured metal stools. A railing made of two-by-fours prevented passengers from falling off, and the stern was decorated with a set of Texas longhorns mounted on a galvanized pole that he claimed a friend from the war had sent him. The engine was as ancient as the rest of the boat; to start it, you pulled a cord, much like a lawn mower. When I was a kid, my grandfather had let me give it a try, and after numerous failed attempts, I could barely move my arm. With my good hand, I gave the cord a couple of sharp jerks now, and when the engine didn’t catch, I guessed the problem was something as simple as spark plugs. My grandfather was a whiz at anything mechanical and I had no doubt he’d been able to keep the engine in good condition right up until he’d made the trip to Easley. Which made me wonder again why he’d been there. * * * After ransacking the barn to find a wrench, I removed the spark plugs and got in my SUV. I’ll admit my vehicle isn’t good for the environment, but because it’s stylish, I like to think that it adds beauty to the world, which makes up for it. I drove a mile down the road to Slow Jim’s Trading Post, finding that the place hadn’t changed a bit. Inside, I asked the cashier where I might find spark plugs, and sure enough, the store had the exact ones I needed. My stomach gurgled as I paid for them, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Overcome with nostalgia, I wandered toward the grill. The six small tables were taken—the place had always drawn a crowd—but there were a few empty stools at the counter and I took a seat. Above the grill was a chalkboard highlighting the menu. There were more choices than I anticipated, though few were remotely healthy. But I’d run that morning, so what the heck? I ordered a cheeseburger and fries from Claude, a man I recognized from previous visits. Despite the apron he was wearing, he looked more like a banker than a cook, with dark hair turning silver at the temples and blue eyes that matched the polo shirt he was wearing beneath his apron. His father had originally founded the store—probably around the time my grandfather built his house—but Claude had been running the place for more than a decade. I also ordered an iced tea, which was as sweet as I remembered. The South is famous for sweet tea, and I savored every drop. Claude then slid a bowl of small, brown soggy things toward me. “What’s this?” “Boiled peanuts. It comes with every order,” Claude explained. “I started that a couple of years ago. It’s my wife’s recipe, and there’s a pot going near the register. You can buy some before you go. Most people do.” I cautiously tried one, surprised by its salty goodness. Claude turned away and dumped some frozen fries from a bag into hot oil, before slapping a burger on the grill. Off to the side, Callie was stocking some shelves, but if she’d noticed me, she hadn’t let on. “Don’t I know you?” Claude asked. “I think I recognize you.” “I haven’t been here in years, but I used to come all the time with my grandfather, Carl Haverson.” “Oh, that’s right,” he said, brightening. “You’re the Navy doctor, right?” “Not anymore. But that’s a story for another time.” “I’m Claude,” he said. “I remember,” I said. “I’m Trevor.” “Wow,” he said. “A Navy doctor.” Claude whistled. “Your pappy sure was proud of you.” “I was proud of him, too.” “I’m sorry for your loss. I sure did like him.” I shelled another peanut. “Me too.” “Do you live around here now?” “I’m staying at his place until June or so.” “Great property,” Claude said. “Your pappy planted some fantastic trees. Really pretty this time of year. My wife has been making me slow the car whenever we pass by. Lots of flowers. Are the beehives still there?” “Of course.” I nodded. “They’re doing well.” “Your pappy used to let me buy and sell some of his honey every year. Folks love it. If there’s any left from either of last year’s harvests, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.” “How many jars would you want?” “All of them,” he chortled. “That good?” “Best in the state, or so they say.” “There’s a ranking?” “I don’t know. But that’s what I tell people when they ask. And they keep buying it.” I smiled. “Why are you at the grill? If I remember right, aren’t you usually working the register?” “Almost always. It’s cooler and a whole lot easier, and I’m not covered in grease by the end of the day. But Frank is my regular grill man and he’s out this week. His daughter is getting married.” “Good reason to miss work.” “Not so good for me. I’m out of practice on the grill. I’ll do my best to make sure your burger isn’t burned.” “I’d appreciate that.” He eyed the sizzling grill over his shoulder. “Carl used to come here two or three times a week, you know. Always ordered a BLT on white toast, with French fries, and a pickle on the side.” I remembered ordering the same thing when I was with him. For some reason, BLTs never tasted quite as good anywhere else. “I’m sure he loved the peanuts, too. These are great.” “Nope,” Claude declared. “Allergic.” “To peanuts?” I squinted in disbelief. “So he always told me. Said his throat would swell like a balloon.” “The things you don’t know about a man,” I mused before recalling that Claude’s father, Jim, and my grandfather had always been close. “How’s your dad doing?” I suspected that Jim had gone the way of my grandfather, as they were close in age, but Claude only shrugged. “Same as always, I guess. He still likes to come by the store a couple times a week and sit in the rockers out front while he has lunch.” “Yeah?” “As a matter of fact, your grandfather used to join him when he came by,” Claude said. “They were a regular pair. I guess Jerrold has sort of taken your grandfather’s place since your grandpa passed. Have you met Jerrold?” “No.” “He used to drive a truck for Pepsi. His wife passed on a few years back. Nice guy, but he’s an odd duck. And frankly, I’m not sure what either of them gets out of it. My pa’s deaf as a doornail and definitely slipping mentally. Makes it tough to have a conversation.” “He must be almost ninety now.” “Ninety-one. My guess is he’ll live to a hundred and ten. Other than his hearing, he’s healthier than I am.” Claude turned around and flipped the burger, then dropped the bun in a toaster. When the bun was ready, he added lettuce, tomato, and onion before facing me again. “Can I ask you a question?” he said. “Shoot.” “What was Carl doing in South Carolina?” “I have no idea. I still haven’t figured that out. I was hoping you could tell me.” Claude shook his head. “He talked to my dad more than he talked to me, but after he passed, there was a lot of curiosity about it.” “Why?” He put his hands on the counter and regarded me. “Well, for starters, he usually didn’t go anywhere. He hasn’t left town in years. And then there was that truck of his—you remember it?” I nodded. It was a Chevy C/K from the early 1960s. It might have been called a classic, except for the fact the body was a faded, rusting wreck. “It was all that Carl could do to keep that thing running. He was really good with engines, but even he said the truck was on its last legs. I doubt it could top forty-five miles an hour. It was fine for getting around town, but I can’t imagine Carl taking it on the interstate.” Nor could I. Clearly I wasn’t the only person wondering what had come over him. Claude turned back to the grill and added fries to the paper plate. He set my meal in front of me. “Ketchup and mustard, right?” “Sure.” He slid the bottles toward me. “Carl liked ketchup, too. I sure do miss him. He was a good man.” “Yes, he was,” I said absently, but my mind became fixated on the sudden certainty that Natalie had been correct when she’d told me that someone had been staying in my grandfather’s house. “I think I’ll bring this outside and eat out front. It was good talking to you, Claude.” “That’s why the chairs are there. Nice seeing you again.” Taking my plate and drink, I walked toward the doors. After using my hip to push open the door, I made my way to the rockers and took a seat. I set my plate on the small wooden table beside me, thinking again about the possible vagrant in my house and suddenly wondering whether it was somehow connected to the other mysteries surrounding my grandfather in the last few days of his life. * * * It was as I was finishing up my lunch that I saw Callie walk out of the store, carrying what looked to be her own lunch in a brown paper bag. “Hey there, Callie,” I offered. She glanced in my direction, looking suspicious. “Do I know you?” “We met the other day,” I said. “When you were walking by my house. You told me the mothballs wouldn’t keep snakes away.” “They won’t.” “I haven’t seen any snakes since then.” “They’re still there.” Surprising me, she squatted down and stretched out her arm, holding a paper plate with a glob of what looked to be tuna on it. “Come on, Termite. Time for lunch.” She set the plate on the ground, and a moment later, a cat popped out from behind the ice machine. “Is that your cat?” I asked. “No. He’s the store cat. Claude lets me feed him.” “He lives at the store?” “I’m not sure where he lives during the day, but Claude lets him inside at night. He’s a good mouser.” “Why is he named Termite?” “I don’t know.” “And you don’t know where he goes during the day?” Callie didn’t respond until Termite was eating. Then, without looking at me, she spoke again. “You sure ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” “When I’m interested in something, I do.” “You’re interested in the cat?” “It reminds me of my grandfather. He used to like strays, too.” Once the cat had finished, Callie picked up the plate. Termite, meanwhile, sauntered in my direction, ignored me completely as he passed, then disappeared around the corner of the store. Callie still hadn’t responded. With a sigh, however, she tossed the paper plate into the garbage and, with her back turned to me as she started walking away, said something that surprised me. “I know.” Chapter 4 Both CBT and DBT emphasize common-sense living, or things your mother taught you, as a way to help improve mental and emotional health. While everyone can benefit from behavioral therapy, for those people like me, who suffer from PTSD, common-sense living is critical to ensuring the quality of life. In real terms—how I behaved, in other words—it meant frequent exercise, regular sleep, healthy eating, and the avoidance of mood-altering substances as ways to make things better. Therapy, I’ve come to learn, is less about navel-gazing conversation than it is about learning habits for successful living, and then, most importantly, putting them into practice. Despite the cheeseburger and fries I’d had for lunch earlier in the week, I generally tried to stick to those guidelines. Experience had taught me that when I was overtired, or if I hadn’t exercised for a while or if I ate too much unhealthy food, I was more sensitive to various triggers, like loud noises or irritating people. I could dislike running all I wanted, but the simple truth of the matter was that I hadn’t been awakened by a nightmare in over five months and my hands hadn’t trembled since I’d arrived in New Bern. All of which meant another workout on Saturday morning, followed by a better-than-usual cup of coffee. Afterward, I changed the boat’s spark plugs. Sure enough, the engine coughed to life, then began to purr. I let it idle for a while, thinking my grandfather would have been proud, especially since—compared to him—I’m not an engine guy. As I waited, I remembered a joke my grandfather had told me on my last visit. A lady pulls her car into the mechanic’s shop because her car is running poorly. A little while later, the mechanic comes out and she asks him, “What’s the story with my car?” The mechanic replies, “Just crap in the carburetor.” “Oh,” she says. “How often do I need to do that?” My grandfather loved to tell jokes, which was yet another reason I always enjoyed my visits with him. He would tell them with a mischievous glint in his eye, usually beginning to chuckle even before he reached the punch line. In this and countless other ways, he was the opposite of my own earnest, achievement-oriented parents. I often wondered how I would have turned out without his easygoing presence in my life. After I shut down the engine, I went back to the house and cleaned up. I threw on khakis, a polo, and loafers, then made the ten-minute drive to downtown New Bern. I’d always liked the downtown area, especially the historic district. There were a lot of ancient, majestic houses there, some of them dating back to the eighteenth century, which was a bit amazing since the town was prone to flooding during hurricanes, which should have wiped them all out by now. When I first began visiting, many of the historic homes were in terrible condition, but one by one they’d been bought up by investors over the years and gradually restored to their former glory. Streets were canopied by massive oak and magnolia trees, and there were a bunch of official markers testifying to important historical events: a famous duel here, an important person born there, some roots of a Supreme Court decision the next block over. Before the revolution, New Bern had been the colonial capital for the British, and after he’d become president, George Washington visited the town briefly. What I liked most, however, was that compared to those in small towns in other parts of the country, the businesses in the downtown were thriving, despite the big-box stores only a few miles away. I parked the car in front of Christ Episcopal Church and climbed out into bright sunshine. Given the blue skies and warmer-than-usual temperatures, I wasn’t surprised at the number of people thronging the sidewalks. I strolled past the Pepsi museum—the soft drink was invented here by Caleb Bradham—and then Baker’s Kitchen, a popular breakfast spot. It was already crowded, with people waiting on the benches outside for tables. A quick internet search before I left made the farmers’ market easy to find, located as it was near the North Carolina History Center. Since Natalie had recommended the place and I had nothing better to do, I figured why not? A few minutes later, I reached my destination. It wasn’t the bustling agricultural horn of plenty I’d pictured, with overflowing bins of fruit and vegetables typical of roadside stands. Instead, the market was mainly dominated by vendors selling trinkets, baked goods, and all sorts of craft items out of garage-type stalls. Which made sense once I thought about it, considering it was only April and the summer crops had yet to come in. Still, it wasn’t bereft of fresh produce, and I made a circuit of the market, getting a feel for the place and deciding what I needed for my own cupboards. As I looked, I bought a cup of apple cider and continued to wander around. In addition to food, I saw dolls made of straw, birdhouses, wind chimes made from seashells, and jars of apple butter, none of which I needed. It was getting crowded, though, and by the time I got back to my starting point I spotted Natalie Masterson hovering over a table of sweet potatoes. Even from a distance, she stood out. She was holding a basket and wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and sandals, all of which did a lot more for her figure than the boring uniform had. A pair of sunglasses was propped on her head and aside from lipstick, she wore little makeup. Her hair swept the top of her shoulders in untamed glory. If I could picture Ms. Masterson earlier that morning, I thought she must have dressed, run her fingers through her hair, and applied a quick coat of lipstick before skipping out the door, the whole process taking less than five minutes. She appeared to be alone and after a moment’s hesitation, I started toward her, almost colliding with an older lady who’d been examining a birdhouse. When I was getting close, Natalie turned in my direction. She did a quick double take, but by then, I was already by her side. “Good morning,” I chirped. I could feel her eyes on me, gleaming with amusement. “Good morning,” she responded. “I don’t know if you remember, but I’m Trevor Benson. We met the other night.” “I remember,” she said. “What are the odds I’d bump into you here?” “Pretty high, I’d say,” she remarked, “since I mentioned that I come here regularly.” “After your recommendation, I thought I’d check it out,” I said. “And I needed to get some things anyway.” “But you haven’t found anything to buy yet?” “I had cider earlier. And there’s a doll made of straw I’m thinking about.” “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who collects dolls.” “I’m hoping it will give me someone to talk to while I’m having coffee in the mornings.” “That’s a troubling thought,” she said, her eyes lingering on mine for a beat too long. I wondered if it was her way of flirting, or if she scrutinized everyone this way. “I’m actually here to pick up some potatoes.” “Feel free,” she said, waving a hand at the table. “There’s plenty.” She turned her attention to the table, chewing on her lip as she studied the produce. Moving closer, I stole a peek at her profile, thinking that her unguarded expression revealed a surprising innocence, as though she still puzzled over why bad things happened in the world. I wondered if it had something to do with her job, or whether I was simply imagining it. Or whether, God forbid, it had something to do with me. She chose a few medium-sized potatoes, sliding them into the basket; I opted for two of the larger ones. After counting how many she’d already selected, she added a few more. “That’s a lot of potatoes,” I observed. “I’m making pies.” At my questioning expression, she said, “Not for me. For a neighbor.” “You bake?” “I live in the South. Of course I bake.” “But your neighbor doesn’t?” “She’s elderly, and her kids and grandkids are coming to visit later this week. She loves my recipe.” “Very nice of you,” I commended her. “How did the rest of your week go?” She rearranged the potatoes in her basket. “It was fine.” “Anything exciting happen? Shoot-outs, manhunts? Anything like that?” “No,” she said. “Just the usual. A handful of domestic disturbances, a couple of drivers under the influence. And transfers, of course.” “Transfers?” “Prisoner transfers. To and from court appearances.” “You do that?” “All deputies do.” “Is that scary?” “Not usually. They’re in handcuffs, and most of them are pretty agreeable. Court is a lot more pleasant than jail. But every now and then, one of them will make me nervous, the rare psychopath, I suppose. It’s like something elemental is missing in their personality and you get the feeling that right after killing you, they could wolf down a couple of tacos without a care in the world.” Peering into her basket, she made a count before turning to the vendor. “How much?” At the vendor’s response, she pulled a few bills from her handbag and handed them over. I held mine up as well and fished the cash from my wallet. As I waited, a brown-eyed brunette in her thirties waved at Natalie and began to approach, all smiles. As the woman weaved through the customers, Natalie stiffened. When she was close, the woman leaned in, offering Natalie a hug. “Hey, Natalie,” the woman said, her voice almost solicitous. Like she knew that Natalie was struggling with something I knew nothing about. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.” “I’m sorry,” Natalie responded as the woman pulled back. “There’s a lot going on.” The woman nodded, her gaze flicking in my direction, then back to Natalie again, her curiosity evident. “I’m Trevor Benson,” I offered, holding out my hand. “Julie Richards,” she said. “My dentist,” Natalie explained. She turned to Julie again. “I know I need to call your office and set up an appointment…” “Whenever,” Julie said, waving her hand. “You know I’ll work around your schedule.” “Thank you,” Natalie murmured. “How’s Steve doing?” Julie shrugged. “Super busy,” she said. “They’re still trying to find another doctor for the practice, so he’s booked solid all week. He’s on the golf course right now, which I know he needs, but thankfully, he promised to bring the kids to a movie later so Mom can have a break, too.” Natalie smiled. “Cooperation and compromise.” “He’s a good guy,” Julie said. Again, her eyes flashed momentarily to me, then back to Natalie again. “Soooo…How do you two know each other?” “We’re not here together,” Natalie said. “I just happened to bump into him. He just moved to town and there was an issue at his house. Legal stuff.” I could hear the discomfort in Natalie’s voice, so I held up my purchase. “I’m here to buy potatoes.” Julie turned her attention to me. “You just moved here? Where are you from?” “Most recently, Florida. But I grew up in Virginia.” “Where in Virginia? I’m originally from Richmond.” “Alexandria,” I said. “How do you like it here so far?” “I like it. But I’m still settling in.” “You’ll get used to it. There are a lot of great people here,” she said, before focusing on Natalie again. I half listened while Natalie and Julie continued with a bit of additional small talk before their conversation finally wound down. Toward the end, Julie leaned in for another hug. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to scoot,” Julie said. “The kids are with my neighbor, and I told her that I wouldn’t be gone long.” “It was good seeing you.” “You too. And remember that you can call me anytime. I’ve been thinking about you.” “Thank you,” Natalie answered. As Julie wandered off, I noted a trace of weariness in Natalie’s expression. “Everything okay?” “Yeah,” Natalie said. “It’s fine.” I waited, but Natalie added nothing else. “I was hoping to pick up some strawberries,” she finally said in a distracted voice. “Are they any good?” “I don’t know,” she said, beginning to come back to me. “This is the first weekend they’re being offered, but last year, they were delicious.” She moved ahead toward a table filled with strawberries, sandwiched between the table with birdhouses and the one displaying straw dolls. Farther up, I saw Julie the dentist speaking with another young couple; I figured Natalie must have noticed her as well, though she gave no indication. Instead, she sidled up to the table of strawberries. When I came to a stop beside her, Natalie suddenly stood straighter. “Oh, I forgot I needed to get some broccoli, too, before it’s all gone.” She took a step backward. “It was nice chatting with you, Mr. Benson.” Though she smiled, it was clear she wanted to extricate herself from my presence, the sooner the better. I could feel others’ eyes on us as she continued to back away. “You too, deputy.” She turned around, heading back the same way we’d just come, leaving me alone in front of the table. The vendor, a young lady, was making change for another customer, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Stay here? Follow her? Following her would probably come across as both irritating and creepy, so I remained at the strawberry table, thinking they resembled the ones I could find in the supermarket, except less ripe. Deciding to support the local farmers, I purchased a container and made my way back slowly through the crowds. From the corner of my eye, I saw Natalie browsing near a stall selling apple butter; there was no broccoli in her basket. I debated heading home before noting again the beauty of the morning, and decided that a cup of coffee would hit the spot. Leaving the market, I walked to the Trent River Coffee Company. It was a few blocks away, but given the pleasant weather, it felt good to be out and about. Inside, I listened to customers ahead of me order their half-decaf mocha chai lattes, or whatever it was people ordered these days. When it was my turn, I ordered a black coffee, and the young lady at the counter—sporting an eyebrow piercing and a tattoo of a spider on the back of her hand—looked at me as though I were still living in the 1980s, the decade in which I’d been born. “That’s it? Just…coffee?” “Yes, please.” “Name?” “Johann Sebastian Bach.” “Is that with a ‘Y’?” “Yes,” I answered. I watched as she wrote Yohan on the cup and handed it to the ponytailed male behind her. It was clear the name didn’t ring the faintest bell. Taking my cup outside, I wandered over to Union Point, a park at the confluence of the Neuse and Trent Rivers. It was also, according to the appropriately located historical marker, the site at which a group of Swiss and Palatine settlers founded the town in 1710. The way I figured it, they were likely heading for warmer climates—South Beach, maybe, or Disney World—and got lost, thus ending up here, the captain being male and unwilling to ask for directions and all. Not that it was a bad location. In fact, it’s beautiful, except when hurricanes come roaring in from the Atlantic. The winds stop the Neuse from flowing toward the sea, the water backs up, and the town starts pretending that it’s waiting for Noah’s ark. My grandfather had lived through both Fran and Bertha in 1996, but when he spoke about major storms, it was always Hazel he referred to, back in 1954. During the storm, two of the beehives were upended, a catastrophic event in his life. That his roof blew off as well wasn’t nearly as important to him as the damage to his pride and joy. However, I’m not sure that Rose felt the same way; she went to stay with her parents until the house was habitable again. There was a large gazebo in the center of the park, as well as a lovely bricked promenade that ran along the river’s edge. I strolled toward an empty bench with a view of the river and took a seat. The sun sparkled off the lazy waters of the Neuse, which was nearly a mile wide at this point, and I watched a boat slowly glide downstream, its sails billowing like a pillow. At a nearby boat launch, I saw a group of paddleboarders getting ready to hit the water. Some were in shorts and T-shirts, others in short wet-suits, and they were clearly discussing their plan of action. At the far end of the park, a few kids were feeding ducks; another pair was playing Frisbee, and still another kid was flying a kite. I appreciated that people around here knew how to enjoy their weekends. In Kandahar—and before that, while in residency—I worked practically every weekend, the days running together in an exhausted blur. But I was getting better at kicking back and relaxing on Saturdays and Sundays. Then again, I was doing pretty much the same thing every other day of the week as well, so I was getting a lot of practice. After finishing my coffee, I tossed the empty in a nearby garbage can and wandered to the railing. Leaning over, I admitted that small-town life had its charms. I especially thought so a couple of minutes later, when I saw Natalie meandering in my direction, the basket trailing at her side. She seemed to be watching the paddleboarders as they worked their way toward deeper water. I suppose I could have waved or called out, but considering our recent encounter in the farmers’ market, I restrained myself. Instead, I continued to study the slow-moving current until I heard a voice behind me. “You again.” I peeked over my shoulder. Natalie’s stance and expression telegraphed that she hadn’t expected to find me here. “Are you talking to me?” “What are you doing here?” “I’m enjoying my Saturday morning.” “Did you know I would be coming here?” “How would I have known where you were going?” “I don’t know,” she said, suspicion seeping into her voice. “It’s a beautiful morning and a great view. Why wouldn’t I come here?” She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again before speaking. “I guess it’s none of my business, anyway. I’m sorry for bothering you.” “You’re not bothering me,” I assured her. Then, nodding toward her basket: “Did you find everything you needed at the market?” “Why are you asking?” “Just making conversation. Since you’re following me, I mean.” “I’m not following you!” I laughed. “Kidding. If anything, I have the impression that you’re trying to avoid me.” “I’m not avoiding you. I barely know you.” “Exactly,” I agreed, and feeling like I was suddenly back in the batter’s box, I decided to take another swing. “And that’s a shame.” I gave her a mischievous smile before turning back toward the river. Natalie studied me, as though uncertain whether to stay or go. Though I thought she would opt to leave, I eventually sensed her presence beside me. Hearing her sigh as she set her basket on the ground, I knew that my third swing at bat had somehow connected. Finally, she spoke. “I have a question.” “Go ahead.” “Are you always this forward?” “Never,” I said. “By nature I’m quiet and reserved. A wallflower, really.” “I doubt that.” In the river, the paddleboarders upstream were now hovering in place. In the silence, I saw her clasp her hands together at the railing. “About what happened earlier,” she said. “In the market, when I walked away. If that seemed brusque, I apologize.” “No apology necessary.” “Still, I felt bad afterward. But it’s just that in small towns, people talk. And Julie…” When she trailed off, I finished for her. “Talks more than most?” “I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.” “I understand,” I said. “Gossip is the bane of small-town life. Let’s just hope she went home to the kids instead of coming to the park, or she might really have something to talk about.” Though I said it as a joke, Natalie immediately scanned the vicinity and my eyes followed hers. As far as I could tell, no one was paying us any attention at all. Still, it made me wonder what was so terrible about the thought of being seen with someone like me. If she had any idea that she knew what I was thinking, she gave no indication, but I thought I noted an expression of relief. “How do you make sweet potato pie?” “Are you asking for the recipe?” “I don’t think I’ve ever had sweet potato pie. I’m trying to figure out what it tastes like.” “It’s a bit like pumpkin pie. In addition to the potatoes, there’s butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, evaporated milk, and a little bit of salt. But the key is really the crust.” “Do you make a good crust?” “I make a great crust. The secret is using butter, not shortening. There are strong feelings on both sides of that debate, by the way. But I’ve experimented with my mom and we both agree.” “Does she live in town?” “No. She’s still in La Grange, where I grew up.” “I’m not sure I know where that is.” “It’s between Kinston and Goldsboro, on the way to Raleigh. My dad was a pharmacist. Still is, in fact. My dad started the business before I was born. There’s a store, too, of course. My mom manages that and works the register.” “When we first met, you said it was a small town.” “It’s only about 2,500 people.” “And the pharmacy does okay?” “You’d be surprised. People need their medicines, even in small towns. But you already know that. Since you’re a doctor, I mean.” “Was a doctor. And hope to be a doctor again one day.” She was quiet for a moment. I studied her profile, but again had no idea what was going through her mind. Finally, she sighed. “I was thinking about what you said the other night. About you becoming a psychiatrist to help people with PTSD. I think that’s a great thing.” “I appreciate that.” “How do people even know they have it? How did you know?” Strangely, I had the impression that she wasn’t asking for conversation’s sake, or even because she was particularly interested in me. Rather, I had the sense she was asking because she was curious for her own reasons, whatever those might be. In the past, I likely would have tried to change the subject, but regular sessions with Dr. Bowen made talking about my issues easier, no matter who was asking. “Everyone’s different, so the symptoms can vary, but I was pretty much a textbook example of the condition. I alternated between insomnia and nightmares at night, and during the day, I felt on edge almost all the time. Loud noises bothered me, my hands sometimes trembled, I got in ridiculous arguments. I spent almost a year feeling angry at the world, drinking more than I should, and playing way too much Grand Theft Auto.” “And now?” “I’m managing,” I said. “Or, at least, I like to think I am. My doctor thinks so, too. We still talk every Monday.” “So you’re cured?” “It’s not something that can really be cured. It’s more about managing the condition. Which isn’t always easy. Stress tends to make things worse.” “Isn’t stress part of life?” “No question,” I admitted. “That’s what makes it impossible to cure.” She was silent for a moment before glancing at me with a wry smile. “Grand Theft Auto, huh? For whatever reason, I can’t picture you sitting on a couch playing video games all day.” “I got really good at it. Which wasn’t easy, since I’m missing fingers, by the way.” “Do you still play?” “No. That was one of the changes I made. Long story short, my therapy is all about changing negative behaviors into positive ones.” “My brother loves that game. Maybe I should get him to stop.” “You have a brother?” “And a sister. Sam is five years older than me, Kristen is three years older. And before you ask, they both live in the Raleigh area. They’re married with kids.” “How did you end up here, then?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as though debating how best to answer before finally offering a shrug. “Oh, you know. I met a boy in college. He was from here, and I made the move after I graduated. And here I am.” “I take it that it didn’t work out.” She closed her eyes before opening them again. “Not the way I wanted.” The words came out quietly, but it was hard to read the emotion behind them. Regret? Resentment? Sadness? Figuring it wasn’t the time or place to ask, I let the subject drop. Instead, I shifted gears. “What was it like growing up in a small town? I mean, I thought New Bern was small, but 2,500 is tiny.” “It was wonderful,” she replied. “My mom and dad knew just about everyone in town, and we left our doors unlocked. I knew everyone in all my classes, and I’d spend my summers riding my bike and swimming in the pool and catching butterflies. The older I get, the more I marvel at the simplicity of it.” “Do you think your parents will live there forever?” She shook her head. “No. A few years ago, they bought a place in Atlantic Beach. They already spend as much time there as they can, and I’m pretty sure that’s where they’ll end up when they finally retire. We actually had Thanksgiving there last year, and it’s just a matter of time now.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “How did you end up working for the sheriff’s department?” “You asked me that before.” “I’m still curious,” I said. “Because you didn’t really answer.” “There’s not much to say about it. It just kind of happened.” “How so?” “In college, I majored in sociology, and after I graduated, I realized that unless I wanted to get my master’s or a PhD, there weren’t a lot of jobs in my field. And when I moved here, it became clear that unless you own a business or have a job at Cherry Point or work for the government or the hospital, you’re limited to service jobs. I thought about going back to school to become a nurse, but at the time, it seemed like too much effort. Then, I heard the sheriff’s department was hiring and on a whim, I applied. I was as surprised as anyone that I was accepted into the training program. I mean, to that point in my life, I’d never even held a gun. And that’s what I thought it would be like—bad guys, dangerous situations, shoot-outs—it’s all about the gun, right? That’s what they show on television, anyway, and that’s all I knew. But once I got in, I quickly figured out that it was more about people skills. It’s about defusing situations and calming emotions whenever possible. And, of course, paperwork. Lots of paperwork.” “Do you enjoy it?” “It’s like any job, I guess. There are parts about it I like, and other parts that I don’t. You occasionally experience things that you wish you hadn’t. Gut-wrenching things you can’t forget.” “Have you ever shot someone?” “No. And I’ve only had to draw my gun once. Like I said, it’s not what you see on television. But you know what?” “Do tell.” “Even though I’d never held a gun, I ended up being a pretty good shot. Top in my class, in fact. And since then, I’ve taken up skeet shooting and sporting clays, and I’m pretty good at those, too.” “Sporting clays?” “It’s like skeet—there are various stands and you use a shotgun—but the clays come from differing angles, with differing speeds and trajectories. It’s supposed to more accurately reflect the way birds and small game move in the wild.” “I’ve never been hunting.” “Neither have I. And I don’t want to. But if I ever did, I’d probably be pretty good.” I couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for her. “It’s actually not that hard to imagine you with a shotgun. Since the first time I saw you, you were armed, I mean.” “I find it…relaxing. When I’m at the range, I’m able to tune everything else out.” “I hear massages are good for that. Personally, I prefer yoga.” Her eyebrows shot up. “You do yoga?” “My psychiatrist’s recommendation. It’s helpful. I can now put on my shoes without having to sit down. It makes me popular at parties.” “I’ll bet.” She laughed. “Where do you do yoga around here?” “Nowhere yet. I haven’t looked for a place.” “Will you?” “Maybe. I won’t be here that long.” “Will you ever come back?” “I don’t know. I guess it depends on whether I sell the house. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be back at the end of summer for a week to finish harvesting the honey.” “You know how to do that?” “Sure,” I said. “It’s actually not that hard. It’s sticky and messy, but not hard.” She shuddered. “Bees scare me. I mean, not the friendly bumblebees, but the ones that buzz around your face like they’re trying to attack you.” “Guard bees,” I said. “Some people call them bouncer bees. They’re not my favorite, either, but they’re important for the hive. They help protect it from predators and keep bees from other colonies out of the hive.” “Are guard bees different than regular bees?” “Not really. As a bee goes through its life cycle, it will serve in various jobs at various times: It’ll be an undertaker bee, or a bee that cleans the hive, or takes care of the queen, or feeds the larvae, or forages for nectar and pollen. And toward the end of its life, it may become a guard bee.” “Undertaker bees?” she echoed. “They remove the dead bees from the hive.” “Really?” I nodded. “My grandfather considered beehives to be the world’s most perfect community. Of course, the colonies are almost entirely female, so maybe that has something to do with it. In fact, I’d bet that almost every bee you’ve ever come across has been female.” “Why?” “Male bees are called drones, and they only have two functions: They eat, and fertilize the queen, so there’s not too many of them.” I grinned. “It’s kind of the perfect job, if you ask me. Eating and sex? I think I would have been a pretty good drone.” She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she thought it was sort of funny. Score one for Benson. “So…what does a beehive look like?” she asked. “I mean, the kind that beekeepers maintain, not natural ones?” “I could describe it, but it would probably be better to actually see one. And I’d be happy to show you my grandfather’s, if you’d like to come by sometime.” She seemed to study me. “When are you thinking?” she asked. “Any time tomorrow is fine. Early afternoon? Say one o’clock?” “Can I think about it?” “Sure,” I said. “All right,” she said with a sigh, before bending to retrieve her basket. “Thanks for the visit.” “You too. But before you leave, would you like to join me for lunch? I’m getting kind of hungry.” She tilted her head and I almost thought she’d say yes. Then: “Thank you, but I really can’t. I have some errands I have to run.” “No worries.” I shrugged. “I just thought I’d offer.” She just smiled and started walking, my eyes following her graceful figure. “Natalie!” I called out. She turned. “Yes?” “If I was a betting man, what kind of odds would you give me that you’ll actually show up tomorrow?” She pursed her lips. “Fifty-fifty?” “Is there anything I can do to increase those odds?” “You know,” she drawled, taking another step backward, “I really don’t think there is. Bye, now.” I watched her recede into the distance, hoping she would turn to look back at me, but she didn’t. I remained at the rail, replaying our conversation, and contrasting it with the way Natalie had reacted when Julie appeared at the farmers’ market. I understood Natalie’s aversion to being the focus of small-town gossip, and yet the more I considered it, the more I wondered whether that was all of it. Natalie, I suddenly realized, had purposely limited her conversation with Julie not only because of what Julie might say to others, but also because there was something Natalie didn’t want me to know about herself. Now, we all have secrets. Despite what I’d told her about my past, I was still a stranger, so there was no reason to expect her to share whatever hers were. But as I continued to reflect on the situation, I couldn’t shake the notion that Natalie was less concerned about what her secrets might reveal than about the guilt her secrets seemed to wield over her. Chapter 5 Here’s a lesson that was ingrained in me by my mom starting at a very young age: If you’re expecting guests, then you’d better clean the house. I’ll admit that when I was a kid, it didn’t compute. Why would anyone care whether all my toys had been put away in my bedroom or if I made my bed? It wasn’t as though any politicians or lobbyists made their way up the stairs to my bedroom while my parents were throwing their parties. They were too busy sipping wine and downing martinis and feeling very, very important. I remember vowing that when I was older, I wouldn’t care about such things. But lo and behold, with Natalie’s visit looming as a possibility, my mom’s directive came roaring back. Long story short, after I finished my run and other exercises, I tidied up the house, ran the vacuum, wiped the counters and sink, cleaned the bathroom, and finally made the bed. Washed myself, too, while singing in the shower, and then spent the rest of the morning catching up on my reading. The section in the book I was perusing dealt with the effectiveness of music as an adjunct to therapy, and as I worked my way through the material, I remembered the years I’d spent playing the piano. In all candor, I’d always had a bit of an on-again, off-again relationship with the instrument; I played throughout my childhood, ignored it completely while at the Naval Academy, picked it up again while I was in medical school, and then didn’t so much as tap a key during my residency. In Pensacola, I played a lot, as I was lucky enough to rent a place with a beautiful 1890 B?sendorfer in the lobby of the building; but Afghanistan was another music-free period, as I doubted whether there was a single piano left in the entire country. Now, with missing fingers, playing like I once did was impossible, which made me suddenly realize how much I missed it. When I finished studying, I closed the book, got in the car, and made a trip to the grocery store. I stocked up on the essentials and made myself a sandwich when I got home. By the time I rinsed the plate, it was coming up on one o’clock. Still uncertain as to whether Natalie would show up but hoping for the best, I headed out to the honey shed. Like the house and the barn, it wasn’t much from the outside. The tin roof was rusting, the cedar planking had turned gray over the decades, and hinges supporting the large double doors screeched as I pulled them open. After that, however, the similarities ended; inside, the honey shed was like a museum. There was electricity, plumbing, and bright fluorescent lights; the walls and ceiling were insulated, and the concrete floor had a drain in the center. To the left was a stainless-steel sink with a long hose attached to a faucet, as well as shallow supers and queen excluders for the beehives, stacked neatly atop each other. On the right was a plastic garbage can filled with kindling for the smokers, next to deep shelves crammed with dozens of jars of honey. Directly ahead was all the other equipment and gear necessary for an apiarist: five-gallon plastic buckets with honey gates, a plastic wheelbarrow, crates filled with extra jars, and rolls of self-adhesive labels. On the back wall, supported by hooks, were nylon strainers, honey sieves, uncapping knives, two smokers, lighters, a dozen bee suits, and gloves and hoods in various sizes. There were also two extractors, which were used to spin the honey from the combs. I recognized the manual one I used to crank until I could barely move my arm, as well as the newer electric one my grandfather had purchased after his arthritis set in, and both appeared to be in perfect working order. As for the suits, I knew I’d find ones that would fit both Natalie and me. He had so many because he was always willing to educate people—often groups—who were interested in learning about the bees. Most people weren’t comfortable visiting the hives without a bee suit; my grandfather, on the other hand, never bothered to put one on. “They won’t sting me unless I want ’em to,” he would say with a wave. “They know I take care of ’em.” Whether that was true or not, I don’t remember him ever getting stung while tending the hives. He was, however, a believer in the Southern folklore that bee venom could mitigate the pain of his arthritis, so every day without fail, he’d collect two bees. While holding them by the wings, he’d taunt them into stinging him, once in each knee. The first time I saw him do it, I thought he was crazy; as a physician, I now understand that he was ahead of his time. In controlled clinical studies, bee venom has actually been shown to relieve arthritis pain. If you don’t believe me, look it up. I’d tended to the hives so many times in the past that the next steps were automatic. I filled the smoker with kindling, collected a lighter and an uncapping knife, as well as a pair of suits, hoods, and gloves. On an impulse, I also took down two jars of honey from the shelves and brought everything to the front porch. I shook the dust from the suits and hoods before draping them over the railing, stacking everything else on the small table near the rockers. By then, it was a quarter past one. Things weren’t looking good on the Natalie front, but even worse was the idea of her discovering me waiting for her on the porch if she did show up. A man has got to have some pride, after all. I went back inside and poured myself a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher I had brewed the night before, then wandered to the back porch. As fate would have it, I had taken only a couple of sips before I heard a car pulling up in the drive. I couldn’t suppress a smile. Walking back through the house, I opened the door just as Natalie mounted the porch. She wore jeans and a white button-up shirt that accentuated her olive-colored skin. Her sunglasses hid her eyes and her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, all of which made her especially alluring. “Hey there,” I said. “I’m glad you decided to come.” She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “Sorry I’m late. I had to take care of some things this morning.” “Not a problem,” I said. “My schedule’s pretty clear all day.” Then, remembering the jars I’d retrieved from the honey shed, I pointed to the table. “I pulled those for you,” I said. “Since you mentioned that you liked my grandfather’s honey.” “Very thoughtful of you,” she murmured. “But are you sure you have enough?” “More than enough. Too much, really.” “You could always get a table at the farmers’ market if you want to get rid of it.” “That probably won’t be possible,” I said. “Saturday mornings are generally when I read to blind orphans. Or rescue kittens from trees.” “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” “I’m just trying to impress you.” A smile played about her lips. “I don’t know whether I should be flattered or not.” “Oh,” I said. “Definitely flattered.” “Good to know, but I can’t make any promises.” “I’m not asking you to,” I countered. “And regarding the honey, Claude over at the Trading Post said he’d take all I could spare, so I’m guessing most of it will end up there.” “I’ll be sure to stock up before the rest of the town finds out.” For a moment, silence descended and her gaze steadied on my own. I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I know you came to visit the hives, but let’s sit out back first, so I can tell you what to expect. It’ll make things a bit clearer when you get out there.” “How long will it take?” “Not long. No more than an hour for everything.” Pulling a phone from her back pocket, she checked the time. “That should be okay.” She went on. “I promised to visit my parents this afternoon. They’re at the beach.” “I thought you had to make pies for your neighbor.” “I did that yesterday.” “Very efficient,” I commented. “Now come on in,” I said, waving her through the doorway. Her footsteps echoed behind me as we passed from the family room to the kitchen. I paused. “Can I get you something to drink?” Eyeing the sweating glass of iced tea in my hand, she nodded and said, “I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind.” “Good choice—I just brewed it last night, as a matter of fact.” Retrieving a glass, I added ice cubes and filled it with sweet dark tea from the refrigerator. I handed it to her, then leaned against the counter, watching as she took a sip. “It’s not bad.” “As good as your pies?” “No.” I laughed, watching as she took another sip and surveyed the house. Despite myself, I was grateful for my mom’s training. Natalie, no doubt, now thought of me as tidy, in addition to rather charming. Or maybe not. I knew I was interested in her, but she was still a mystery to me. “You’ve made some changes to the place,” she noted. “Though I loved living in a time capsule, I felt the need to update the decor.” “It seems more open, too.” “My grandfather had a lot of stuff. I got rid of it.” “My parents are like that. On the fireplace mantel back home, there must be fifty framed photographs. Try to dust one, and they topple like dominoes. I don’t understand it.” “Maybe the older people get, the more important the past becomes? Because there’s less future ahead?” “Maybe,” she said, without adding anything else. Unable to read her, I pushed open the back door. “Ready?” I followed her out onto the back porch, watching her settle in the same rocker as she had the first night I’d met her. Unlike me, she didn’t lean back; instead, she remained propped on the edge, as if ready to jump up and run away if she had to. After all our banter, I was surprised that she wasn’t more relaxed, but I was getting the feeling that Natalie was full of surprises. I took a sip of my tea, watching as she gazed toward the creek, her profile as perfect as cut glass. “I think I could stare at this forever.” “Me too,” I said, looking only at her. She smirked, but decided to let my remark pass. “Do you ever swim out there?” “I did when I was a kid. Right now, the water’s still too cold.” “That might be a good thing. Apparently someone sighted some alligators a little ways upstream.” “Seriously?” “It’s pretty rare to find them this far north. We get reports of them once or twice a year, but I’ve never had any luck sighting any. They tend to be in places cars can’t reach.” “If you’d ever like to go out on the water, I’ve got the boat right out there.” “That might be fun,” she agreed before folding her hands in her lap, suddenly all business again. “What did you want to tell me about the bees?” “Let’s start with this,” I said, setting my glass aside. “How much do you know about bees? And how much do you want to know?” “I have about an hour, maybe a little more. So tell me whatever you think will be important.” “Fair enough,” I said. “Bee colonies have an annual cycle. In the winter, a hive might have five or ten thousand bees. In the spring, once it warms up, the queen begins laying more eggs, and the population begins to grow. During the summer months, a hive might hold up to a hundred thousand bees, which is why an apiarist might add another chamber to the hive. Then, as autumn approaches, the queen begins to lay fewer eggs. The population starts to diminish again, because the colony somehow knows it hasn’t stored enough honey to feed all the bees. In the winter, the remaining bees eat the honey to survive. They also cluster together and vibrate to create heat, so the colony doesn’t freeze. When it begins to warm, the cycle starts all over again.” She digested that, then held up a hand. “Hold on,” she said. “Before you go on, I want to know how you learned all this stuff. Did your grandfather teach you?” “We tended the hives together whenever I was down here visiting. But I also heard him give the talk to lots of different people. When I was in high school, I even did a semester-long project on bees for my science class.” “Just making sure you know what you’re talking about. Go on.” Did I detect a bit of flirting in her tone? I reached for my tea again, trying not to lose track of my thoughts. Her beauty was distracting. “Every hive also has a single queen. Assuming the queen doesn’t get sick, she lives from three to five years. Early on in her life cycle, the queen flies around and gets fertilized by as many male bees as she can before returning to the hive where she’ll lay eggs for the rest of her life. The eggs turn to larvae, and then pupae, and when they’re mature, the bees are ready to serve the hive. Unlike the queen, these worker bees live only six or seven weeks, and they’ll cycle through a variety of different jobs in their short lives. The vast majority are female. The males are called drones.” “And all the drones do is mate with the queen and eat.” “You remembered.” “It was hard to forget,” she said. “What happens if the queen dies?” “Bee colonies have a fail-safe,” I answered. “No matter what time of year, when a queen is weakening or not laying enough eggs, the nurse bees will start feeding several of the larvae a substance called royal jelly. This food changes the larvae into queens, and the strongest one will take over. If necessary, that new queen will then replace the older queen. At which point, she’ll fly away and mate with as many drones as she can before returning to the hive to spend the rest of her life laying eggs.” “That isn’t much of a life for a queen.” “Without her, the colony will die. That’s why she’s called the queen.” “Still, you’d think she’d get to go shopping or attend a wedding every now and then.” I smiled, recognizing in her humor something akin to my own. “Now, yesterday I mentioned a few of the jobs bees do during their life cycle—clean the hive or feed the larvae or whatever. But the majority of bees in any hive collect pollen and nectar. A lot of people might think that pollen and nectar are the same, but they’re not. Nectar is the sugary juice in the heart of the flowers. Pollen, on the other hand, are tiny grains that collect on the anthers. Want to guess which one leads to the making of honey?” She pursed her lips. “Nectar?” “Exactly,” I said. “A bee will fill its nectar sacs, fly back to the hive, and turn the nectar into honey. A bee also has glands that turn some of the sugar in the honey into beeswax. And little by little, honey is created and stored.” “How is nectar turned into honey?” “It’s kind of gross.” “Just tell me.” “When a bee gets back to the hive with its load of nectar, it passes the nectar mouth-to-mouth to a different bee, who then does the same to another bee, over and over, gradually lowering the moisture content. When it gets concentrated enough, it’s called honey.” She made a face. For a second, I could picture her as a teenager. “That is kind of gross.” “You asked.” “What happens with bees who bring in pollen?” “Pollen is mixed with nectar to make bee bread. That’s what they feed the larvae.” “And the royal jelly?” “I don’t know how that’s made,” I admitted. “I used to know, but I’ve forgotten.” “At least you’re honest.” “Always,” I said. “But that brings us to another important point. Because the bees need to eat the honey to survive the winter, an apiarist has to be careful not to take too much when they harvest.” “How much is that?” “My grandfather would only harvest about sixty percent of the honey in any given hive, some in June and the remainder in August. Some of the larger producers will take a higher percentage, but it’s generally not a good idea.” “Is that what happened to the bees?” “What do you mean?” “I read some articles saying that bees were dying out. And that if they did, humanity wouldn’t survive.” “The latter part is true. Without bees spreading pollen from one plant to another, many crops simply can’t survive. As to the first part, the decline in the bee population probably has less to do with overharvesting than the overuse of chemicals to clear the hive. My grandfather never used chemicals because, really, you don’t need them. I’ll show you when we get out there, but I think that’s it for now.” I set my glass aside. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to know?” “Yeah, about the guard bees. Why do they buzz around your face?” “Because it works,” I said with a laugh. “People don’t like it, so they retreat. Keep in mind that in the wild, bears will ravage beehives. The only way a tiny bee can protect the hive from a giant bear is to sting it in the eyes, the nose, or the mouth.” She hesitated. “Okay. But I still don’t like them.” “That’s why we’ll be wearing suits. You ready?” Natalie stood from her seat and led the way inside before stopping in the kitchen to deposit her glass. Meanwhile, I pulled two spoons from the kitchen drawer, wrapped them in a paper towel, and put them in my pocket. Retracing our steps to the front porch, I handed the smaller suit to her. “Slip this on over your clothes,” I said. I pulled off my shoes, then put on a suit; Natalie did the same, and I made sure everything was zipped properly. After we put our shoes back on, I handed her the mesh hood—it was connected to a hat with a round brim—and the gloves, then used the lighter to get the smoker going. “What’s that?” “It’s a smoker. It calms the bees.” “How?” “The bees interpret smoke as part of a forest fire and they’ll begin feeding on the honey in case they have to move the hive somewhere else.” I collected the rest of the gear and motioned for her to follow. We set off in the direction of the hives, passing clutches of azalea bushes, into an area dense with dogwoods, flowering cherry trees, and magnolias. The air was thick with the sound of buzzing, and bees could be seen clustering on practically every bloom. At the edge of the property, the vegetation grew denser. Directly ahead I caught sight of one of the hives; though my grandfather had built his own, they were similar to ones that could be purchased as kits or used by commercial farmers, consisting essentially of a stand supporting a stack of wooden chambers, along with lids. As always, I was amazed by the idea that it would be home to more than a hundred thousand bees. “We should stop here and put on the rest of our gear.” After donning our gloves, we approached the hive, bees bumping against the mesh of our hoods. I added air to the smoker and puffed out some smoke near the hive before setting it on the ground. “That’s it?” “You don’t need much smoke,” I explained. “Bees have an acute sense of smell.” I pointed toward an area beneath the lip of the lid. “Do you see this? It’s how the bees get in and out of the hive.” She took a cautious step closer. “How long do we have to wait for the smoke to work?” “It’s working now,” I said. “They’ll be calm for fifteen or twenty minutes.” “Does the smoke hurt them?” “Not at all,” I said. “Let me show you the inside of the hive.” Lifting off the top lid—or outer cover, in beekeeper-speak—I set it aside. Then, using the uncapping knife, I loosened the inner cover. Always a bit sticky, it was harder than usual to pry off, probably because it hadn’t been removed in months. Once I freed the inner cover, I set it on the ground as well. “Come take a peek,” I said. “They’re friendly now.” With obvious trepidation, she peered over my shoulder. I pointed to the top chamber. “This part of the hive is called the upper deep. It’s the food chamber. There are ten hanging frames, and this is where most of the honey is stored.” Pointing to the chamber beneath it, I went on. “The one right below is called the lower deep, and it’s the brood chamber.” “Wow,” she murmured. There were hundreds of slow-moving bees crawling on top of and between the frames. Natalie seemed genuinely rapt. “I’m glad you were interested in coming here,” I said. “Otherwise I probably would have forgotten to add the shallow super and the queen excluder. I didn’t remember until I saw them in the honey shed.” “What are they for?” “The shallow super adds additional honey storage to the hive for the larger summer bee population. It’s like the upper deep, only smaller. The queen excluder ensures that the queen won’t up and fly away.” “You don’t need them year-round?” I shook my head. “You’ll want a smaller hive in the winter so it’s easier to keep warm.” On the upper deep, bees continued to crawl around with unflagging energy and purpose. I pointed to a large wasplike one. “See this one?” I asked. “That’s a drone.” She peered closer, then eventually pointed to another. “That one, too?” I nodded. “As I told you, they’re greatly outnumbered by the females, like Hugh Hefner in the Playboy Mansion.” “Nice metaphor,” she drawled. I grinned. “Let me show you something.” I removed my gloves, then reached down and gently picked up one of the worker bees by her wings. She was still docile from the smoke. Using the thumbnail on my other hand, I provoked her until she tried to sting me through the nail. “What are you doing?” Natalie whispered. “Are you trying to make her angry?” “Bees don’t get angry.” I manipulated the bee again, and again it tried to sting me three, four, and then five times. “Watch this,” I went on. I put the bee on the back of my hand and let go of the wings. Instead of continuing to try to sting, the bee took a few steps and then flew slowly back toward the upper deep. “The bee doesn’t care about me, or what I just did to her,” I said. “She was just trying to protect herself. Now that the threat is gone, she doesn’t hold a grudge.” Through the mesh, I read fascination and newfound respect. “Interesting,” she said. “Way more complex than I imagined.” “Bees are extraordinary creatures,” I said, hearing the echo of my grandfather’s voice. “Do you want to see the honey? And the larvae?” “I’d love to,” she said. Using the uncapping knife, I loosened one of the frames at the top edge, then loosened the other side until I could slowly pull it free. As I did, I watched Natalie’s eyes widen; the frame was covered with hundreds of bees on both sides. After checking it over and determining that the cells didn’t have the variety I wanted, I slid it back into the hive. “There should be a better one,” I remarked. “It’s still early in the season.” It took three frames before I found the one I wanted, and I removed it fully from the hive. Like the others, it was swarmed with bees, and I held it in front of her. “Do you remember when I told you that big producers use chemicals to clear the hives? So they can harvest the honey?” “I remember.” “This is why you don’t need chemicals.” I took a small step back and with a quick motion, jerked the frame up and down. Nearly all the bees flew away and I held up the virtually empty frame in front of her. “That’s all you have to do to clear the bees from the frame so you can get to the honey,” I said. “Just a single, quick shake.” “Then why do the big producers use chemicals?” “I have no idea,” I said. “I haven’t been able to figure that out yet.” Angling the frame for a better view, I pointed to various cells as I spoke. “These cells up here in the corner, covered in the beeswax, are filled with honey. These lighter ones down here contain larvae and eggs. And the empty ones will all be filled with honey by the end of the summer.” More comfortable with the hive now, Natalie moved even closer. There were still a few bees on the frame, and she slowly reached a finger of her gloved hand toward one of them, marveling as it ignored her completely. Another slowly crawled over her gloved finger then onto the frame again. “They’re not mad that you shook off all their friends?” “Not at all.” “What about killer bees?” “They’re different,” I said. “As a colony, they’re a lot more aggressive in protecting the hive. These bees might send out ten or fifteen guard bees when they feel the hive is threatened, but killer bees will send out hundreds of guard bees. There are some historical and evolutionary theories as to the reason why, but unless you’re really interested, we can save that for another time. Do you want to taste some of the honey?” “Now?” “Why not? We’re here.” “Is it…ready?” “It’s perfect,” I assured her. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the spoons and unwrapped them. I held one out to her. “Would you mind holding this for a second?” She took the spoon while I used the other to crush my way through some of the beeswax-coated cells. Raw, pure honey spilled onto the spoon. “Trade you,” I said. Natalie took the spoon with honey, while I did the same to mine. “Hold this one for a second, too, okay?” She nodded. Her eyes flickered from me to the honey, golden in the sunlight. I reassembled the hive, picked up the smoker and uncapping knife, then took one of the spoons from her. We walked away from the hives, in the direction of the shed. When we were a safe distance away, I motioned to her that it was fine to take off her hood and gloves. When I could see her face without the mesh, it was glowing with excitement and interest, her skin dewy with a light sheen of perspiration. I held up the spoon, as though making a toast. “Ready?” I tapped my spoon against hers, then ate the honey, finding it was sweet enough to make my teeth hurt. After she tasted hers, she closed her eyes and took a long breath. “It tastes…” “Flowery?” “And delicious. But yes, there’s a very strong floral flavor.” “Honey will taste different depending on where the hive is located, because the nectar the bees collect will be different. That’s why some honey is sweeter than others, some have a slightly fruitier flavor, others more flowery. It’s kind of like wine.” “I’m not sure I’ve noticed a big difference in flavors until now.” “Most commercial honey is clover honey. Bees love clover, which is why there’s a clover patch on the property, too. But honey is also one of the most manipulated and lied-about foods on the planet. A lot of commercial honey is actually honey mixed with flavored corn syrup. You have to be careful where you buy.” She nodded, but there was something trancelike about her demeanor, as if the combination of the sun, the soothing droning of the bees, and the elixir of honey had relaxed the defenses she usually erected around herself. Her lips were parted and moist, her aquamarine eyes drowsy and translucent. When her gaze drifted from the hive to meet mine, I felt an almost hypnotic pull. I took a step toward her, the sound of my own breath loud in my ears. She seemed to know how I was feeling and was flattered by it. But just as quickly, she caught herself and picked up the hood and gloves, severing the thread of the moment. I forced myself to speak. “Would you like to see how the honey is extracted? It’ll only take a couple of minutes.” “Sure.” Without another word, we started in the direction of the honey shed. When we got there, she handed me the hood and gloves, then proceeded to take off the bee suit. I did the same and put everything back in place. I moved the manual extractor away from the wall. She came over to inspect the extractor but was careful to keep a safe distance. “To harvest the honey, you take frames from the hive, shake off the bees, and load them in the wheelbarrow to bring them here,” I began, slowly but surely regaining my equilibrium. “Then, one at a time, you load the frames into the extractor, between these slots. You turn the crank, and it spins the frame. Centrifugal force will push the honey and beeswax from the combs.” I turned the crank, demonstrating how it worked. “Once the honey is spun out of the frame, you place one of those nylon bags into a plastic bucket, set it beneath the nozzle on the extractor, open the nozzle, and let the honey drain into the bucket. The nylon bag captures the wax but lets the honey pass through. After that, the honey goes into a jar and it’s ready to go.” Wordlessly, Natalie took in the rest of the shed, wandering idly from one station to the next, finally stopping in front of the plastic garbage can. Lifting the lid, she saw the wood chips and shavings; by her expression, I knew she’d figured out that the contents were for use in the smoker. She examined the back wall, inspecting all the equipment, and waved at the rows of neatly labeled jars of honey. “It’s so organized in here.” “Always,” I agreed. “My dad has a work shed like this,” she commented, turning to face me again. “Where everything has a purpose, everything has a place.” “Yeah?” “He buys old transistor radios and phonographs from the 1920s and 1930s and then repairs them in a shed behind our house. I used to love spending time there as a little girl when he was working. He had a high-backed stool and he’d wear these glasses that magnified everything. I can still remember how big his eyes were. Even now, whenever I visit them in La Grange, the shed is usually where the two of us talk about life.” “That’s an unusual hobby.” “I think he finds it peaceful.” She sounded wistful. “And he’s proud of it, too. There’s a whole section in the store with refurbished electronics on display.” “Does he sell any?” “Hardly.” She laughed. “Not everyone shares his fascination with antique electronics. Sometimes he talks about opening a small museum, maybe one that’s attached to the store, but he’s been talking about it for years, so who knows?” “What does your mom do while your dad is tinkering?” “She bakes,” she answered. “Which is why I know how to make a great piecrust. And she sells what she bakes at the store, unless we eat it first.” “Your parents sound like good people.” “They are,” she said. “They worry about me.” I stayed quiet, expecting her to go on, but she didn’t. I finally offered a gentle prod. “Because you’re a deputy?” “Partly,” she conceded. Then, as though realizing the conversation had veered in an unintended direction, she shrugged. “Parents always worry. That’s the nature of parenthood. But that reminds me I should get going. They’ll be waiting for me.” “Of course,” I said. “I’ll walk you to your car.” We left the shed, walking down the pathway toward the drive. She drove an older model, silver Honda, a sensible car she probably intended to keep as long as it still ran. I opened the driver’s side door for her; inside, I saw her handbag on the passenger seat, and a small crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. “I enjoyed the day so much,” she said. “Thank you.” “I did too,” I admitted. “And you’re welcome.” The sun was at her back, making her face difficult to read, but when she placed her hand lightly on my forearm, I sensed that she, like me, didn’t want the day to end just yet. “How long will you be at your parents’?” “Not long,” she said. “I’ll visit for a couple of hours and then head back home. I have to work tomorrow morning.” “How about we meet for dinner later? When you get back?” She studied me carefully, then hedged. “I’m not sure what time that will be.” “Any time is fine,” I said. “You could shoot me a text when you’re leaving and I could meet you somewhere.” “I…um…” She trailed off before reaching into her pocket and pulling out her keys. “I don’t like to go out in New Bern,” she finally said. Though I could have asked her the reason, I didn’t. Instead, I took a step backward, giving her space. “It’s just dinner, not a commitment. Everyone’s got to eat.” She said nothing, but part of me began to suspect that she wanted to say yes. As to why she was holding back, I still wasn’t sure. “I could meet you down at the beach if it’s easier,” I offered. “That’s out of the way for you.” “I haven’t been to the beach since I’ve been back here,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to go.” Well, not really. Not until just now, anyway. “I don’t know of any good restaurants at the beach,” she said. “Then how about Beaufort? You must have someplace you like there.” As I waited for her answer, she jingled her keys. “There is a place…” she began, her voice barely audible. “Anywhere,” I said. “The Blue Moon Bistro,” she said in a rush, almost like she was afraid she would change her mind. “But it can’t be too late.” “Pick the time. I’ll meet you there.” “How about half past six?” “Perfect.” “Thank you again for the beekeeping lesson today.” “Glad to do it,” I said. “I enjoyed spending time with you.” She let out a soft exhale as she slipped into the driver’s seat. “Me too.” I closed her door and she turned the key. The engine came to life, and glancing over her shoulder, she backed the car out. As the car stopped and then began to roll forward, I reflected on the mystery of Natalie Masterson. By turns confident and vulnerable, revealing and secretive, she seemed to be a woman of complex instincts. Still, what had begun as a flirty diversion had already begun to morph into something deeper, a desire to connect with and truly understand a woman whom I couldn’t figure out. Nor could I shake my desire to connect with the real Natalie—to leap the wall she seemed compelled to build between us—and perhaps form something even deeper and more meaningful. Even to me, it struck me as a romantic notion that bordered on the ridiculous—I reminded myself again that I didn’t really know her—but at the same time, I know what my grandfather would have said. Trust your instincts, just like the bees do. Walking back to the house, I spotted the jars of honey on the porch table and realized she’d forgotten to take them. I put them in the SUV, then spent the rest of the afternoon on the back porch with a textbook in my lap, trying not to think about Natalie or even my own feelings, but finding it impossible to concentrate. Instead, I replayed our time together over and over again, finally admitting to myself that I was simply counting the minutes until I could see her again. Chapter 6 What to wear. Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but I found myself googling the restaurant to get a better idea of the dress code. As far as I could tell, the place was tasteful and charming. Built in a historic home, the photos showed heart pine flooring, smaller tables with white tablecloths, and plenty of natural light streaming in through the windows. I could imagine getting away with jeans, but in the end, I went with your basic Annapolis look: tan pants, a white button-up shirt, navy sport jacket, and Top-Siders. All I needed was a scarf, and I could walk around saying things like, Anyone up for some yachting? It would take a little under an hour to get there, but not wanting to be late, I made it across the bridge to Beaufort with at least forty-five minutes to spare. The town was nestled on the Intracoastal, and I parked near the waterfront, just around the corner from the restaurant. I spotted a pair of wild horses across the waterway, grazing on one of the many barrier islands that make up the coastline of North Carolina. My grandfather told me these horses were descended from the mustangs that survived Spanish shipwrecks off the coast, but who knew if that was true? I decided to use the extra time to browse the art galleries along the waterfront. Most of the work was by local artists, featuring either beach themes or the historic architecture in Beaufort. In one of the galleries, I saw a painting of a house where Blackbeard the Pirate had allegedly lived; I vaguely recalled that the wreck of Blackbeard’s ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, had been discovered in the Beaufort Inlet. The gallery owner confirmed my recollection, though he also admitted that there was some uncertainty about the whole thing. The wreck was estimated to be the correct size and the cannons they’d found on the ocean floor were from that period, but there was nothing to specifically indicate the name of the ship. It wasn’t as though they’d been able to reach into the glove compartment and check the registration, and the ocean can cause a lot of damage in three hundred years. Wandering to the waterfront again, I noticed the sun slowly going down, casting a golden prism across the water. Heavenly light, my grandfather used to call it, and I smiled, reminiscing about all the times he’d brought me here for an afternoon at the beach, followed by an ice cream cone in Beaufort. Thinking back, I was amazed by how much time he’d been able to make for me whenever I was in town. I found myself turning again to his strange journey to Easley, my last visit with him, and his final, mystifying words to me. Go to hell… Not wanting to dwell on it, I shook the thought away. By then, it was coming up on six thirty, and I started toward the restaurant, wondering whether she’d show. Just then, however, I saw Natalie’s car pulling into an open space near my SUV. I turned in that direction, reaching her car just as she climbed out. She’d changed into a flowered, high-necked sleeveless dress that accentuated her figure, and black medium-heeled boots, with a sweater draped over her arm. A thin gold chain around her neck glowed in the waning light. When she reached inside the car for her purse, I noted how graceful her every move was. Her arms and legs were lithe and toned, swishing the thin fabric of her dress around her in a tantalizing motion. Closing the car door, she turned and startled. “Oh, hey,” she said. “I’m not late, am I?” “You’re actually a few minutes early,” I said. “You look great.” She adjusted the thin necklace, as though making sure the—locket? medallion?—was hidden from view. “Thank you,” she said. “Did you just get here?” “I came a little early,” I said. “How did your visit with your parents go?” “Same as usual.” She sighed. “When he’s at the beach, my dad likes to read on the back porch. My mom has been slowly decorating the place since they bought it, and was dying to show me the redecorated guest room. I love them to bits, but sometimes spending time with them feels like the movie Groundhog Day, where every day is the same.” I nodded in the direction of the restaurant. “Do you want to head over?” “Let me put my sweater on. It’s a bit chilly, don’t you think?” She held out her purse. “Can you hold this for a second?” As she slipped the sweater on, I found myself wondering if she felt self-conscious in her lovely, formfitting dress. I wasn’t cold in the slightest. Wrapping it tightly around her, she took her purse back and we crossed the street. There were few other people out and about; the town, I observed, was even sleepier than New Bern. “When was the last time you ate at the Blue Moon Bistro?” “It’s been a while,” she said. “A year and a half, maybe?” “Why so long?” “Life. Work. Errands. Unless I’m visiting my parents, it’s a little out of the way. As a general rule, I tend toward quieter evenings at home.” “Don’t you and your friends ever go out?” “Not too much, no.” “Why not?” “Life. Work. Errands,” she said again. “Because I’m still low on the totem pole at work, my schedule changes a lot. Sometimes, I work days, other times, it’s nights and it changes regularly. It can be a challenge to schedule things with friends.” “That’s inconvenient,” I said. “It is,” she agreed. “But it pays the bills. And I’m very responsible.” “Always?” “I try to be.” “That’s too bad.” “No, it’s not.” “I beg to differ,” I said. “In the end, people generally regret the things they didn’t do, not the things they did.” “Who told you that?” she scoffed. “Common sense?” “Try again.” “My psychiatrist?” “Did he really say that?” “No, but I’m sure he would have. He’s a very smart guy.” She laughed, and I noted how different she was from the first night I’d met her. It was almost as though her uniform had the ability to transform her personality. But then I realized that the same was true about me. In a lab coat or scrubs, I was one person; dressed like a yachtsman, I was someone different. When we reached the restaurant, a teenage girl welcomed us. About half of the tables were occupied. She pulled a pair of menus from the stand and led the way to a small table near one of the many windows. As I walked, I heard the floor creaking with age and history. I pulled out Natalie’s chair for her, then took a seat across from her. Through the window, the view didn’t offer much: just another historic house directly across the street. No water view, no potential sunset, no wild horses. As though reading my mind, Natalie leaned across the table. “It’s quaint, but the food is really good,” she said. “Trust me.” “Anything I should have in particular?” “Everything is great,” she assured me. I nodded and after spreading my napkin in my lap, I perused the menu. “I’ve decided to go on the seafood diet,” I announced. “What’s that?” “See food and eat it.” She rolled her eyes, but I saw her crack a faint smile. In the silence, I studied the menu again before suddenly remembering what I’d left in the car. “By the way, you forgot to take the jars of honey I left for you.” “I remembered as soon as I got home.” “Well anyway, I brought them for you, so remind me on our way out.” The waitress arrived and took our drink orders. Both of us ordered iced tea, along with water. When we were alone at the table again, I tried not to stare at her, the burnished halo of her hair in the candlelight framing her delicate features and unusually colored eyes. Instead, I delved into learning more about her, hungry for details about her past and everything that shaped the person she was now. “So your dad fixes old electronics, your mom bakes and decorates,” I summarized. “How about your siblings? What can you tell me about them?” She shrugged. “They’re both in baby hell right now,” she said. “Or, rather, toddler hell. Both have two kids under three. Even compared to me, they have no life at all.” “And you?” “I’ve already told you about my life.” Some things, but not really. “Tell me what you were like as a kid.” “It’s not that exciting. I was pretty shy as a girl, although I loved to sing,” she began. “But lots of young girls love to sing and it’s not as though I did anything with it. I guess I started coming into my own in high school and finally escaped my older siblings’ shadows. I won the lead in the high school musical, joined the yearbook committee, even played soccer.” “We have that in common,” I said. “Music and soccer.” “I remember,” she said. “But I don’t think I was as good as you were at either of them. I played soccer mainly so I could spend time with my friends. I didn’t even start until I was a senior, and I think I only scored one goal the whole season.” I quickly chose the fried green tomatoes as an appetizer and tuna for the main course, setting the menu aside. “Did you go to high school in La Grange?” “La Grange is too small for a high school, so I ended up going to Salem Academy. Have you heard of it?” When I shook my head, she went on. “It’s an all-girls boarding school in Winston-Salem,” she said. “My mom went there, and so did my older sister, Kristen. My brother went to Woodberry Forest in Virginia. My parents were big on education, even if it meant shipping us off to boarding schools.” “Did you like that?” “Not at first. Even though my sister was there, I was homesick and my grades were terrible. I think I cried myself to sleep every night for months. But I eventually got used to it. By the time I graduated, I loved it, and I still keep in touch with a few of the girls I met there. And I think going away to school helped when I went to NC State. When I moved into the dorms as a freshman, I was used to living without my parents, so the transition to college was super easy. But I’m still not sure I’d go that route with my own kids. If I ever have them, I mean. I think I’d miss them too much.” “Do you want kids?” It took her a few beats to answer. “Maybe,” she finally offered. “Not right now. And for all I know, it might never happen. The future remains unwritten, right?” “I suppose.” She set her menu on top of mine at the edge of the table. I saw her eyes come to rest on my injured hand. Instead of hiding it, I spread my remaining fingers on the table. “Looks strange, doesn’t it?” I commented. “No.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to stare…” “It’s understandable. Even though I’m used to it, I still think it’s strange. But losing fingers is better than losing an ear.” At her puzzled expression, I pointed to the side of my head. “This isn’t real,” I said. “It’s a prosthetic.” “I wouldn’t have known unless you’d told me.” “I’m not sure why I did.” But I knew the reason. As much as I wanted to know her, I also wanted her to know the real me, to feel as though I could be completely open with her. She was silent for a moment and I thought she’d change the subject, or even excuse herself to go to the restroom. Instead, she surprised me by reaching out and gently tracing the scarred stumps where my fingers used to be. The touch was electric. “The explosion must have been…horrific,” she said, her fingertip still on my skin. “I’ve thought about it since you told me. But you didn’t go into any detail. I’d like to hear about it if you’re comfortable telling me.” I offered a condensed version of the story: the random mortar blast after I’d exited the building, a flash of sudden heat and searing, and then nothing at all until I woke after my first surgeries. The flights to Germany and then back to the US, and the series of additional surgeries and rehabilitation at Walter Reed and Johns Hopkins. At some point while I was speaking, she removed her hand from mine, but even after I finished, I could still feel the ghostly remnants of her touch. “I’m sorry you had to endure all that,” she said. “If I could go back in time, I’d leave the hospital a few minutes earlier or later. But I can’t. As for right now, I’m trying to move forward in positive ways.” “I’ll bet your parents are still proud of you.” As soon as she said it, I remembered my previous experiences when I’d shared what had happened to them. I knew I should simply offer something ambiguous like, I hope so, without going into details, but with the way Natalie was looking at me, I realized I didn’t want to keep the words inside me. “My parents died a month before I graduated from college. They were taking a trip to Martha’s Vineyard, some political soiree that probably meant virtually nothing in the long run. A client had chartered a plane, but they never made it. The plane crashed in Virginia less than five minutes after takeoff.” “Oh my God! That’s awful!” “It was,” I said. “One day they were there, and the next day they were gone and I was crushed. The whole thing felt surreal—still does sometimes. I was only twenty-two, but I still felt like I was closer to being a teenager than an adult. I can still remember when my commanding officer came into my class and called me to his office so he could tell me.” I hesitated, the memories still vivid. “Because I was largely done with my classes, the Academy gave me leave to handle the affairs and that was in some ways even more surreal. My grandfather came up to help, but still…I had to find a funeral home and choose caskets and pick out a dress for my mom and a suit for my dad, figure out what they would have wanted for services. I’d just spoken on the phone to them a few days earlier.” “I’m glad your grandfather was there for you.” “We needed each other, no question about it. He’d already lost his wife, and had just lost his only child. We ended up driving back to New Bern after the services, and I don’t think either of us said a word the entire trip. It wasn’t until we got to his house that we could even talk about it at all, and we both shed a lot of tears that week. It was just so sad for me to think of all the things they would never have the chance to do, or what my future would be like without them.” “I can’t imagine losing my parents like that.” “There are moments when I still can’t. It’s been a decade now, but sometimes, it still feels like I should be able to pick up the phone and call them.” “I don’t know what to say.” “No one does. It’s hard for people to fathom. I mean, who becomes an orphan at twenty-two? It’s not as though there are many people who ever have to deal with something like that.” She looked away, as though still trying to process what I said, just as the waitress arrived to take our dinner orders. Almost robotically, Natalie ordered a beet salad and red snapper, and I ordered the choices I’d picked earlier. When the waitress retreated, Natalie looked up at me. “When I was young, my best friend died. I know it’s not even close to the same, but I remember how awful it was.” “What happened?” “We were both twelve. She lived two doors down, and her birthday was only a week before mine. Her parents were friends with my parents, so we pretty much grew up together. Went to the same school, we were in the same class all the way through, we even both took the same dance lessons. At the time, I think I was closer to Georgianna than I was to either my sister or my brother. Even when we weren’t together, we spoke on the phone all the time. But anyway, we’d walked home from school together. I remember we were talking about this boy named Jeff, who she thought was cute, and she was wondering whether he liked her, too. We said goodbye at my house, and I remember hugging her goodbye. We always hugged. Anyway, about an hour after that, she wanted an ice cream sandwich, so she decided to walk to the convenience store, maybe three blocks away. While she was walking, she was hit by a drunk driver and died.” I could tell by her expression that she was reliving that moment and I stayed silent. When she finally realized I hadn’t responded, she shook her head. “Like I said, it’s not the same as losing both your parents.” “I didn’t lose my best friend when I was young, either. I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you,” she said. Then, exhibiting a bit of false cheer, she added: “But look at us. Could our conversation get any more depressing?” “I prefer to think of it as the two of us being honest with each other.” “It’s still not the best dinner topic.” “What would you like to discuss instead?” “Anything.” “All right,” I said. “What else can you tell me about growing up? Good things, I mean.” “Like what?” “Did you have any pets?” When she looked skeptical, I added, “I’m just trying to get an idea of who you were.” “We had a dog and a cat for most of my childhood. They were named Fred and Barney.” “From The Flintstones?” “Exactly.” “How about family vacations?” “We took them all the time,” she said. “We went to Disney World every other year, we’d go skiing in West Virginia or Colorado, and we’d rent a house in the Outer Banks for two weeks every summer. One set of grandparents lived in Charlotte, and another near Boone, so we’d visit them, too. There were a lot of long car rides and I used to dread them…but now I think it helped us form closer ties as a family.” “It sounds idyllic.” “It was,” she said, seemingly growing more comfortable with sharing. “I have no complaints about our family life.” “I don’t know too many people who can say that. I thought everyone had issues with their parents.” “I’m not saying they were perfect, but it was easier for me and my siblings because they get along so well. Considering they work together all day and then go home together, you’d think they’d get tired of each other. But my dad is still crazy about my mom, and she dotes on him. There was a lot of laughter and we had dinner together every night as a family.” I grinned, marveling at how different our childhoods had been. “What led you to choose NC State? After you finished high school?” “It’s where my dad went to school,” she answered. “My mom went to Meredith, which is an all-girls college in Raleigh. But after Salem Academy, I wanted a big, public, coed school. I also knew it would make my dad happy. In fact, all of us—my brother and sister—went to NC State. We’re all die-hard Wolfpack fans, in case you’re wondering. Even my mom has been converted. My dad has season tickets for football and we usually have a family tailgate once or twice a year. My parents go to every home game.” “And that’s where you met the guy you followed to New Bern, right?” “Mark,” she said, adding nothing else. “You loved him?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, her gaze falling. “But he’s not someone I want to talk about.” “Fair enough,” I said. “I think I have a pretty good idea of who you are, even without that part of your life.” “You do, huh?” “Well, some of it, anyway.” “What’s confusing you?” “I’m still not sure why you decided to become a deputy. You strike me as more like the teacher or nurse type. Or maybe an accountant.” “Should I be offended by that?” “I’m not saying you’re not tough enough. I guess it’s just that you strike me as intelligent, caring, and thoughtful. It’s a good thing.” She scrutinized me for a beat. “I already told you,” she answered. “I sort of fell into it. But to your point about nursing, I get that a lot, actually, although I’m not sure why. To me, hospitals…are…” She hesitated. “They’re depressing. I hate hospitals. And besides, I get squeamish at the sight of blood.” “Another reason not to be in your line of work.” “I think we’ve established that I’m not engaging in shoot-outs every shift.” “But if you were, you’d be fine. Since you’re an excellent shot.” “My nickname is Bull’s-eye,” she said with a wink. “In my own mind, anyway.” The waitress came by with bread and rolls, apologizing that she hadn’t brought them earlier. I took a roll and buttered it, as did Natalie. While we nibbled, the conversation continued to drift here and there, with an ease typical of people who’d known each other far longer. We talked about the bees and beehives, shared memories of our college experiences, life in a small town versus the city, the Navy, favorite rides at Disney World, a bit about my parents and my grandfather. I even touched on my grandfather’s curious journey to Easley and his final words to me. When the waitress brought our food, it was as delicious as Natalie had promised. Out of town or not, it was a place where I’d gladly eat again. Especially with Natalie. Though our easy rapport continued throughout dinner, it never crossed into the territory of flirting—whether she felt any real romantic interest in me was hard to tell. That she was enjoying dinner and my company, I had no doubt. As to whether she ever wanted to have dinner again, I honestly had no idea. And yet, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had such a pleasurable evening. It wasn’t just because she’d said the right things when I’d told her about my parents, or that she’d shared with me her own loss from childhood. Instead, I realized that I admired the value she placed on certain things—family, education, friendship, and kindness, among other things—and it was clear that she struggled with some of the things she saw regularly on her job—addiction, domestic violence, bar fights. She confessed that those things sometimes left her feeling agitated and unable to sleep after a shift had ended. “Why don’t you quit?” I finally asked. “You have a degree and work experience. I’m sure you could find something else.” “Maybe,” she admitted. “But for now, I think it’s best if I stick with it.” “Because you want to make a difference?” She touched the thin gold chain at her neck. “Sure,” she finally said, “let’s go with that.” Neither one of us was in the mood for dessert, but we agreed on coffee. A little caffeine would help with the drive back to New Bern. As she stirred her cup, I realized that aside from work and family, she’d told me little about herself since she’d arrived in New Bern a few years back. In fact, she’d said barely anything about her life in New Bern at all. Maybe to her it wasn’t all that interesting. But as I turned these facts over in my mind, Natalie stared out the window. Because of the interior lights of the restaurant, I was treated to her profile as it was reflected back in the glass. And in that moment, I understood that instead of focusing on the evening we’d just spent together, she had something else on her mind. Something that made her feel sad. * * * In old-school fashion and because I’d invited her, I paid the check. To her credit, she was content to let me do so with a gracious thank-you. The night had cooled by the time we began the ambling trek toward our vehicles. It was clear, with a spray of stars overhead and the Milky Way illuminating a path toward the horizon. The streets were empty, but from the restaurants near the water, I could hear the faint murmur of conversation and clinking glasses. Waves gently lapped against the seawall. It still wasn’t late and I thought about suggesting that we sit on the veranda of the restaurant, with its glorious view, but I was nearly certain that she’d decline. To that point, we’d yet to have had so much as a glass of wine when we were together, not that it mattered. It was simply another interesting quality of the time we’d spent together. “I was thinking about what you told me earlier,” she finally said. “About your grandfather.” “Which part?” “His last trip, and his end at the hospital,” she said. “You’re sure that he’d never mentioned Easley before?” “Not to me,” I said. “Claude didn’t know anything, either, but I haven’t spoken with his father yet.” “Then for all you know, he could have been on the way to somewhere else,” she pointed out. By then, we’d reached the waterfront. She paused, her ocean-colored eyes searching mine. A strand of spun-gold hair fell across her face, and I was tempted to tuck it behind her ear. Her voice broke my reverie. “Have you thought about trying to find his truck?” “His truck?” “There might be something in the cab,” she explained. “Maybe an itinerary, or the name of whomever he was visiting, or even the place he was going. Notes, maps, anything.” Even before she’d finished speaking, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. Then again, I wasn’t in law enforcement or a fan of mystery novels, so maybe that had something to do with it. “You’re right,” I mused aloud. “But how would I find his truck?” “I’d start with the hospital. Find out who they use for ambulance services. There’s probably a record somewhere of where they picked him up. Depending on where he was found, the truck might still be there. Or it may have been towed, but at least you’ll have a starting point.” “That’s a great idea,” I said. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” She nodded. “And let me know what happens. I’m interested, too.” “I will,” I said. “Which reminds me—I don’t think I have your cell number. In case I need to call.” Or wanted to call, which was far more likely. “Oh,” she said, and I got the impression that she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Not wanting to give her too much time to think, I reached for my phone and activated the contact list. After a moment, she took it—her reluctance was clear—and typed in her details before handing it back to me. “I should probably be heading back,” she announced. “Early day tomorrow, and I still have to finish some laundry.” “I understand,” I said. “I have a busy day tomorrow, too.” “Thank you again for dinner.” “You’re welcome. It was a pleasure getting to know you better.” “You too. It was nice.” Nice? Not exactly the description I’d been hoping for. “Oh, before you go, let me get the honey.” I retrieved the jars from my SUV and handed them over, feeling a kinetic jolt as our fingers brushed. I was reminded of the way she’d gently touched my scar earlier. I knew I wanted to kiss her, but she must have read my mind and automatically took a small step backward. In the sudden space between us, I detected a lingering energy, as though she’d wanted to kiss me as well. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I thought I detected a trace of regret in her parting smile. “Thank you for these, too,” she said. “I’m almost out.” She turned and slowly made her way to her car. As I watched her go, I thought of something and pulled the phone from my pocket again. The screen was still on the contact page, and I dialed the number. A few seconds later, I heard the faint sound of a phone beginning to ring. She reached into her purse before catching sight of the number and glancing at me over her shoulder. “Just checking,” I said. She rolled her eyes before getting into her car. I waved as she drove past and she returned the gesture before reaching the road that would take her back to New Bern. Alone, I wandered to the railing, watching the ocean sparkle in the moonlight. The breeze had picked up, cooling the air, and I turned my face to it, pondering her reluctance to kiss me. Was it part of her overall hesitation to appear in public with me? Was she really worried about small-town gossip, even this far from New Bern? Or was it that she was already seeing someone else? Chapter 7 I hadn’t been lying to Natalie when I’d said I had things to do on Monday. As opposed to most days, when I had time to goof off before taking a break and then goofing off some more, the responsibilities of life sometimes intruded, even if I didn’t have to punch a clock or show up at the hospital or office. For starters, it was almost the middle of April, and my taxes were officially due. The documents had been waiting for weeks in a cardboard box delivered courtesy of UPS. I used the same accounting firm my parents had used, initially because I knew nothing about finance or accounting, and after that because I assumed that switching to another firm would add unnecessary complications to my life, when things were already complicated enough. Frankly, thinking about money bores me, probably because I’ve never had to really worry about it. My taxes were complicated because of the various trusts, investments, and portfolios I’d inherited from my parents, some of which had been funded with more life insurance than either of my parents needed. Still, whenever I saw my net worth—my accountants would meticulously prepare a balance sheet for me every February—I would sometimes wonder why I’d been so insistent on becoming a doctor in the first place. It wasn’t as though I needed the money. The interest I collected annually was a lot more than I would ever earn as a doctor, but I think something inside me craved my parents’ approval, even if they were no longer around. When I graduated from medical school, I imagined them clapping in the audience; in my mind’s eye, I saw my mom’s eyes welling with tears while my father beamed with pride at a job well done. In that moment, I understood clearly that I’d rather my parents were alive than to have received the generous inheritance they’d left me. When my statements arrive in the mail every year, I’m always reminded of those losses, and there are times when I’m too overwhelmed to even peruse them. Even though I’d tried to explain it to Natalie while we’d been at dinner, I knew I hadn’t been able to find the words to adequately express the loss or grief I really felt. Because I was an only child, I hadn’t just lost my parents; I’d lost my entire immediate family as well. Over the years, I’d gradually come to believe that family is like your shadow on a sunny day, always there, just over your shoulder, following you in spirit no matter where you are or what you’re doing. They’re always with you. Thank God my grandfather was there to carry on part of that role, as he had so many other roles when I was younger. With his passing, however, the days are now endlessly cloudy, and when I glance over my shoulder, there is nothing there at all. I know there are others in my situation, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. It just makes me think that no shadows follow them either; that they, like me, often feel entirely alone. Reflecting on all of this made me wonder whether I would actually sell my grandfather’s property. Though I’d told myself that I’d come to New Bern to get the place ready for the realtor, it was also the only remaining link to both my mother and my grandfather. At the same time, if I didn’t sell, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it. I couldn’t simply lock it up—the vagrant might break in again, right?—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to rent it, either, because I didn’t want strangers messing with the peculiar charm of the place. In the room where I’d slept as a kid, there were pencil marks on the closet door where my grandfather had duly etched my height next to those he’d marked for my mother; the thought that someone might paint over that history wasn’t something I wanted to contemplate. My condo in Pensacola had simply been a place where I lived; this house, my grandfather’s house, carried the ghosts of meaningful memory; it was a place where the past continued to whisper, as long as I was willing to hear it. Knowing I had a lot to do, I went for a halfway decent run, showered, and poured myself a cup of coffee. At the table, I went through the documents from my accountants. As always, there was a cover letter that explained everything I needed to know, and little stickers on various forms indicating where I needed to sign. My eyes began glazing over at the thirty-second mark, which was normal, and I finished two additional cups of coffee before finally sliding the various documents into the appropriate preaddressed envelopes. By midmorning, I stood in line at the post office, making sure everything was postmarked, before heading back to the house and writing an email to my accountants, letting them know the deed was done. Next on the to-do list were the beehives. After donning the same suit I’d worn the day before, I loaded the wheelbarrow with the equipment I needed, then collected a few shallow supers, along with some queen excluders. I hoped that I wasn’t too late. Without the queen excluder, the queen might suddenly fly off in search of a new hive, taking her swarm with her. That was what had happened in Brazil in 1957 after scientists bred Africanized honey bees, aka killer bees, thinking they would thrive in the tropical conditions. A visiting beekeeper, believing the queen excluders were hindering the movement of the bees inside the hives, removed them, and twenty-six queens as well as their swarms escaped, traveling north, eventually reaching the US. I pushed the wheelbarrow along the same path I’d used the day before, intending to work from left to right. As I got settled in place, I glanced toward the road and saw Callie walking, most likely on her way to the Trading Post. Like the other times I’d seen her walking, her head was bowed and she shuffled along with what seemed to be grim determination. Wandering toward the edge of the property, I held up a hand in greeting. “Off to work?” My sudden appearance must have startled her and she stopped. “You again.” They were the same words Natalie had said to me at the park by the river, and I was struck by the notion that Callie was equally mysterious and guarded. “It’s me,” I said. Then, realizing I was wearing the suit, I motioned toward the hives. “I have to do some work on the hives so the bees stay happy.” She continued to eye me almost warily. When she crossed her arms, I noticed a bruise near her elbow. “They’re bees. Can’t they take care of themselves?” “You’re right,” I admitted. “They’re not like Termite in that you have to feed them, but they still need a little tending now and then.” “Do they like you?” “Who? The bees?” “Yes, the bees.” “I don’t know. They seem okay with me.” “You’re wearing a suit. I never saw your grampa wear a suit. When I walked past here, I mean.” “He was braver than I am.” For the first time since I’d seen her, she cracked the slightest of smiles. “What did you want?” “Nothing. I saw you walking past and thought I’d say hello.” “Why?” Why? I hadn’t expected the question and for a moment, I couldn’t think of a response. “Just being neighborly, I suppose.” She seemed to stare right through me. “We’re not neighbors,” she said. “I live a ways down the road.” “You’re right,” I said. “I have to go,” she said. “I don’t want to be late for work.” “Fair enough. I don’t want you to be late, either.” “Then why did you stop me to talk to you?” I thought I’d answered that with the whole being neighborly thing, but I guess to her mind, I hadn’t. But feeling as though she wanted to end the conversation sooner rather than later—again, like Natalie at the farmers’ market, which made me think how similar they were in temperament—I took a step backward toward the wheelbarrow. “No reason,” I said. “Have a great day.” She waited until I’d retreated a few steps before starting to walk again. And though I didn’t turn around to check, I was certain she didn’t cast so much as a single glance my way. Not that it was any of my business. I put on the hood and gloves, then moved the wheelbarrow closer to the first of the hives. I got the smoker going, puffed enough to calm the hive, and waited another minute before removing both lids. I added the excluder to the top of the upper deep, put the shallow upper super on top of that, and put the lids back on. Same things with the second, third, and fourth hives. I refilled the wheelbarrow multiple times, lost in the routine and remembering my grandfather, until all the hives were done. Fortunately, all the queens were still in place—eating food and laying eggs, doing their thing—and I was able to finish in under three hours. By then, it was coming up on lunch, and thinking my morning had already been exceedingly productive, I treated myself to a beer with my sandwich. Sometimes, it just hits the spot. Know what I mean? * * * After lunch, there were two more things on my agenda, both of which I considered important for my own peace of mind. Natalie had been right about the possibility of finding answers in my grandfather’s truck. She was also smart to suggest that I call the hospital first. For all I knew, my grandfather had been transported from another county. I found the phone number on the internet and spoke to an older lady with an accent so thick it could have been bottled, who had absolutely no idea how to help. After hemming and hawing for a couple of minutes—in addition to her drawl, she spoke incredibly slowly—she finally landed on the name of one of the hospital administrators and offered to connect me. While she was doing so, unfortunately, I was cut off. I called again, asked for the appropriate name, and then was connected to voicemail. I left my name, number, a brief message, and asked him to return my call. Maybe because of the experience I’d had with the first lady, I wasn’t all that certain I’d receive a call back. Even so, I felt like I’d just taken the first step on a journey to find the answers I needed. * * * In the various phases of my life—high school, Annapolis, medical school, residency, and the Navy—I became friends with some extraordinary people. In each of those phases, I became particularly close to a small circle of individuals, and I simply assumed that I would remain close with them forever. Because we were hanging out then, my thinking went, we’d hang out forever. But friendships, I’ve learned, aren’t like that. Things change; people change. Friends mature and move and get married and have children; others become doctors and deploy to Afghanistan and have their careers blown up. Over time, if you’re lucky, a few—or maybe just a couple—remain from each of the various phases of your life. I’ve been fortunate; I have friends who date back to high school, and yet, I sometimes find myself wondering why some people remain in your life while others drift away. I don’t have the answer to that, other than to observe that friendship has to flow both ways. Both of you have to be willing to invest in the friendship in order to maintain it. I mention this because I sometimes wonder whether to consider Dr. Bowen a friend. In some ways, he is. We speak every week and he knows me better than anyone. He’s the only person who knows how much I actually used to contemplate suicide after my injuries—daily, if you’re curious—and he’s the only one who knows that I feel very low every year on the day my parents’ plane crashed. He knows how much sleep I get, how many beers I drink in the course of a week, and how hard it used to be for me to control my anger in situations where I should have simply rolled my eyes and gone on with life. Once, about nine months ago, I was standing in the checkout line at Home Depot when the next aisle opened up. The clerk there said he could help the “next person in line,” which was me, but the man behind me rushed over instead, taking what was rightfully my place. No big deal, right? Maybe an irritation, but what was really at stake? A few minutes? On a day when I wasn’t really doing anything at all? The point is that it shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I was bothered, then angry, and then, as the emotion continued to build, enraged. I stared at the back of his head with death rays, and I ended up walking out the door less than half a minute behind him. Watching him in the parking lot, I had to fight the visceral urge to chase after him and tackle him to the ground. I imagined pummeling him with my fists, even if I could make a fist with only one of my hands; I imagined driving a knee into his kidneys or his stomach; I visualized ripping his ear off, just as I’d lost mine. My jaw was set, my body bracing for confrontation as I began to walk faster when all of a sudden, it dawned on me that I was experiencing a symptom of PTSD, one that Bowen had repeatedly warned me about. I’d been in therapy for a while by then, and like a steady voice of reason amid an orchestra of emotional noise, Bowen was telling me what to do, telling me to change my behavior. Stop and turn away. Force yourself to smile and relax the muscles. Take five long breaths. Feel the emotion, and then let it go, watching as it dissipates. Weigh the pros and cons regarding the action you want to take. Check the facts and realize that in the broad scheme of things, what really happened doesn’t matter at all. When my anger finally dissipated to a manageable level, I was able to drive home. Days later, I poured the whole story out to my doctor, but in the following months, I told none of my friends. Nor did I tell my friends about the nightmares and the insomnia or anything else that was making my life a trial. And I wondered: Why can I tell Dr. Bowen, but not the people I consider friends? I suppose it has to do with fear: fear of rejection, fear of disappointing others, fear of their anger or their judgment. This says more about me than it does them, but I don’t feel this way when I speak with Dr. Bowen. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the simple fact that I pay him. Or maybe it has to do with the idea that, for all our conversations, I know little about him. In that way, we’re not friends at all. Because he wears a wedding ring, I assume he’s married, but I have no idea who his wife is, or how long they’ve been married, or anything else about his wife at all. I don’t know whether he has children. From the diplomas on the wall of his office, I know he went to Princeton as an undergraduate and Northwestern for medical school. But I don’t know his hobbies, or the kind of house he lives in, the food he likes, or any books or movies that he may have enjoyed. In other words, we’re friends, but really, we’re not. He’s just my therapist. Eyeing the clock, I saw it was almost time for our weekly call, so after rinsing my dishes in the sink, I propped open the back door for some fresh air and put the computer on the kitchen table. Dr. Bowen liked to see my eyes when we spoke, so he could tell whether I was lying or hiding something important. On my end, it was a lot easier than meeting him in person, and I had easy access to the bathroom if I had to go. No reason to put the session on hold, no matter what. I could just carry the computer with me while I did my business. Kidding. At the top of the hour, I logged into Skype and it automatically dialed the number. When the connection was made, Dr. Bowen popped into view. As usual, he was at his desk in the office, a place I’d visited more times than I could count. Slightly balding with round, wire-rim glasses that made him look more like a professor of mathematics than a psychiatrist, he was, I guessed, about a decade and a half older than I was. “What’s up, Doc?” “Hello, Trevor.” “How are you?” “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” When I asked, it was simply part of a greeting. When he asked, he actually meant it. “I think I’m doing well,” I answered. “No nightmares, no insomnia, sleeping well. I had one or two beers on four different days last week. I worked out five times. No episodes of anger or anxiety or depression in the last week. Still working the CBT and DBT skills whenever I feel like I need them.” “Great.” He nodded. “Sounds very healthy.” He paused. Bowen did that a lot. Pause, I mean. “Should we keep talking?” I finally asked. “Would you like to keep speaking?” “Are you going to charge me?” “Yes.” “Oh, I’ve got a new joke,” I said. “How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?” “I don’t know.” “Only one. But the lightbulb has to really want to change.” He laughed, just as I knew he would. Bowen laughs at all my jokes, but then he gets quiet again. He’s told me that jokes might be my way of keeping people at a distance. “Anyway,” I began, and proceeded to catch him up on the basic goings-on in my life in the past week. When I’d first started therapy, I wondered how any of this could possibly be useful; I’d learned over time that it allowed Bowen to have a better idea about the stress I was under at any given time, which was important in my management of PTSD. Add too much stress, remove the skills and healthy behaviors, and it’s either kaboom, like I felt toward the Home Depot guy, or way too much drinking and Grand Theft Auto. So I talked. I told him that I’d been missing my grandfather and my parents more than usual since I’d last spoken to him. He responded that my feelings were entirely understandable—that checking the hives and fixing the engine on the boat would likely have triggered a mix of nostalgia and feelings of loss for just about anyone. I mentioned that I was nearly certain that someone had broken into the house and had lived there. When he asked if I felt violated or bothered by that, I said that it was more curious than bothersome, since aside from the back door, there’d been no damage and nothing had been stolen. I also mentioned the things Claude had said about my grandfather, and—as we had so often of late—we spoke about my grandfather’s last words and my ongoing confusion about them. “It still troubles you,” he observed. “Yes,” I admitted. “It doesn’t make sense.” “Because he told you to go to hell?” Dr. Bowen, like Natalie, seemed to remember everything. “It wasn’t like him to say something like that,” I insisted. “Maybe you misunderstood.” Bowen had suggested this before. As I had in the past, I dismissed it. “I’m sure he said it.” “But he also said that he loved you, correct?” “Yes.” “And you indicated that he’d had a major stroke? And was on a lot of medication and was quite possibly confused?” “Yes.” “And that it took nearly a day for him to be able to speak any words at all?” “Yes.” When I said nothing else, he finished with the same question that continued to plague me. “Yet you still feel he was trying to communicate something important.” On the monitor, Bowen was watching me. I nodded but said nothing. “You do realize,” he offered, “that you may never understand what that might be?” “He meant the world to me.” “He sounds like a profoundly decent man.” I looked away. Through the open door, the creek was black and ancient in the soft Southern light. “I should have been there,” I muttered. “I should have gone with him. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have had the stroke. Maybe the drive was too much for him.” “Maybe,” Bowen said. “Or maybe not. There’s no way to know for sure. And while it may be normal to feel guilty, it’s also important to remember that guilt is simply an emotion, and like all emotions, it will eventually pass. Unless you choose to hold on to it.” “I know,” I said. He’d said this to me before. While I accepted the truth of it, it sometimes struck me that my emotions didn’t care. “Anyway…Natalie said that I might find some answers in his truck. As to the reason he was in South Carolina, I mean. So I’ve begun the process of trying to find out where the truck is.” “Natalie?” he asked. “She’s a deputy sheriff here in town,” I began, then went on to tell him how we’d met, and a little about our conversations at the park, at the house, and then finally at dinner. “You’ve spent quite a bit of time together since we last spoke,” he responded. “She wanted to see the beehives.” “Ah,” he said, and because we’d spoken so frequently, I knew exactly what he was thinking. “Yes,” I said, “she’s attractive. And intelligent. And yes, I enjoyed our time together. However, I’m not sure how Natalie feels about me, which means there’s not much else to add.” “All right,” he said. “I’m serious,” I insisted. “And besides, I suspect Natalie might be dating someone else. I’m not sure about that, but there are signs.” “I understand,” he said. “Then why does it sound like you don’t believe me?” “I believe you,” he said. “I simply find it interesting.” “What’s interesting?” “Natalie is the first woman you’ve spoken to me about since you broke up with Sandra.” “That’s not true,” I said. “I told you about Yoga Girl.” She was a woman I’d gone out with twice the previous fall, right around the time I’d been accepted into the residency program. We’d had a couple of pleasant evenings, but both of us knew by the end of the second date that it wasn’t going to work between us. I watched as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I remember,” he finally said, his voice coming out with a sigh. “And do you know what you called her? When you first mentioned her to me?” “I can’t say that I do,” I admitted. I also tried to remember her name. Lisa? Elisa? Elise? Something like that. “You called her Yoga Girl,” he said. “You didn’t use her name.” “I’m sure I told you her name,” I protested. “Actually, you didn’t,” he said. “At the time, I found that interesting, too.” “What are you trying to say? That you think I might be falling for someone in local law enforcement?” The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as we both noted the fact I’d suddenly avoided her name. “I have no idea,” he went on. “And that’s not really for me to say one way or the other.” “I don’t even know if I’ll see her again.” The time on my computer showed, amazingly, that nearly an hour had already passed and that our session was about to come to an end. “Speaking of seeing each other,” he added, “I wanted to let you know that it’s possible we could meet in person next week. Unless you’d prefer to continue communicating electronically.” “You think I need to travel to Pensacola?” “No, not at all. Perhaps I should have been clearer. There’s a conference at Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville concerning PTSD. One of the speakers, unfortunately, had to cancel and I was asked to fill in. It’s on Tuesday, but I have to fly up Monday. If you’d like, we could meet in Jacksonville, or I could come to New Bern, if that’s easier.” “That would be great,” I said. “What time?” “Same time?” he asked. “I can catch a morning flight and rent a car.” “Are you sure it’s not too far out of the way?” “Not at all. I’m looking forward to visiting your grandfather’s place. You’ve painted quite a picture for me.” I smiled, thinking that even if I had, I still hadn’t done it justice. “I’ll see you next week, Doc. Do you need directions?” “I’m sure I’ll be able find it. Take care.” * * * Two hours later, my cell phone rang. Though I didn’t recognize the number, the area code was from upstate South Carolina. The hospital administrator? “Trevor Benson,” I answered. “Hi. This is Thomas King from Baptist Easley Hospital. I received your message, but I wasn’t exactly sure what information you needed.” Unlike the receptionist, his accent wasn’t nearly as thick or hard to understand. “Thank you for returning my call,” I started, before laying out the situation. When I finished, he asked me to hold for a moment. It was way longer than a moment. I listened to Muzak for at least five minutes before I heard the phone click through to him. “I apologize that it took so long, but I had to find out who to ask, and then find the information you needed. We generally use two ambulance services,” he explained before giving me their names. As I wrote them down, he went on. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the particulars regarding your grandfather. I suppose your best bet is to call the ambulance services. Perhaps they’ll have the information you need. I’m sure they’re required to keep records.” It was just as Natalie had suggested. “I appreciate your help,” I said. “This is more than helpful.” “You’re welcome. And my condolences for the passing of your grandfather.” “Thank you,” I said. I hung up, thinking that I’d call the ambulance companies in the morning. I wished I had thought about it when my grandfather had been in the hospital; after nearly half a year, who knew how long it might take them to find the answers I needed. My thoughts turned to Natalie. Since my call with Bowen, images of her kept resurfacing in my mind; I saw her expression of wonder as she watched the bee crawl over her finger, the sensuous swirling of her dress outlining her long legs and the graceful lines of her body as she stepped out of her car in Beaufort. I recalled both our heartfelt discussion and the easy banter between us, and I puzzled over the flash of sadness I thought I’d sensed toward the end of our dinner. I thought about the energy between us and knew exactly why I’d called her by her name when speaking with Bowen. As much as I’d tried to downplay it with Dr. Bowen, I knew with certainty that I wanted to see her again, sooner rather than later. * * * After I’d had dinner, I resolved to finally get some reading done on the back porch. But figuring that Natalie would have finished her shift some time ago, I found myself reaching for my cell phone. I debated calling but decided against it. Instead, I typed out a quick text. I was just thinking about you and hope you had a good day. Are you free for dinner this weekend? Though I should have set my phone aside, I waited to see if she was near enough to her phone to read the text right away. Sure enough, I saw the indication that she’d read the text and assumed she would write something back. Instead, there was no response at all. For the rest of the evening, I continued to check my phone. Childish. Compulsive. Maybe immature. At times, I can be all those things. Like Bowen says, we’re all works in progress. Finally, just as I was getting ready to turn in for the night, I heard the telltale ding of my cell phone. Thanks. Typical day. Nothing special. I stared at the screen, thinking it didn’t exactly proclaim an undeniable passion and attraction toward me, especially since she hadn’t addressed my invitation at all. I put the phone on the bedside table, feeling…confused? hurt?—before reaching for the lamp. I shook those feelings aside, knowing it was way too early to feel either of those things. Besides, if she hadn’t wanted to speak with me again, she wouldn’t have answered at all. Right? I turned out the light, then adjusted the covers, when I heard my cell phone suddenly ding again. I reached for the phone. I’ll think about it. Not a yes, but not a no, either. I continued to stare at the screen until it vibrated again with another message from her. :-) I smiled. Clasping my hands behind my head, I stared at the ceiling, more curious about her than ever. Chapter 8 I didn’t hear from Natalie on Tuesday, which disappointed me, but my offer was out there. I knew she was working and busy, and I had things to do as well. Well, sort of. But I didn’t text her. It wasn’t as though I was thinking about her all the time. Just…too much for my own good. I also spoke to both ambulance companies. As with the hospital, it took a couple of transfers before I was able to reach someone who could help. Yes, I was told, there were records of pickup locations for patients who had been transported to the hospital; no, I was told, they didn’t have that information readily available. It would take them a few days to find it, maybe until the end of the week, and if I didn’t hear from them to call again. Hurry up and wait. Just like so many other things in life. * * * Hoping for a chance to speak with Claude’s father, I decided to visit the Trading Post for lunch. Pulling up, I spotted a bin offering bags of ice, firewood for sale, propane tank refills, an air compressor to fill tires, and an old-fashioned vending machine, which seemed redundant since people could purchase sodas inside. Unfortunately, there was no one out front in the rockers. Inside, Claude was back at his usual spot behind the register and he raised a hand in greeting as I headed toward the grill. As usual, all the tables were occupied, so I found myself at the counter. A massive man—at least a head taller than me and twice as wide—nodded toward me before handing me a small bowl of boiled peanuts. I assumed this was Frank, the regular grill man. Unlike Claude, he said nothing. Not much of a chatter, which was fine with me. In honor of my grandfather, I ordered a BLT with fries and a pickle. Behind me, I overheard two guys at one of the tables talking about their fishing trip the weekend before, lamenting their lack of luck, and debating better places to try the following weekend. I peeked over my shoulder. Both were wearing baseball caps; one had the sinewy arms associated with construction, while the other wore a uniform of one of the propane distributors. When one of them mentioned that he’d spotted an alligator recently, my ears perked up. “Four of ’em actually,” he went on. “Sunnin’ right there on the bank between the trees.” “Big ones?” his friend asked. “Nah. Juveniles, probably.” “Where?” “You know where the boat launch is? A couple of bends in the river after that, on your right. You remember the bald eagle’s nest in the cypress tree? Right around there.” “What eagle’s nest?” “Same nest as last year.” “I didn’t see it last year.” “That’s because you never take the time to look around.” “I’m fishing,” he answered, “not sightseeing.” “You try the quarry? I’ve had some luck with bass there lately…” The conversation returned to fishing again and I found myself tuning out. I was, however, interested in the alligators and the bald eagles and wondered if Natalie might want to join me. By then, my meal was ready, and Frank placed the plate in front of me. I took a bite, confirming that it never tasted as good anywhere else. I finished the sandwich and the pickle, but had only a few of the fries. I could feel my arteries hardening as I sampled them, but my taste buds were happy. As I was finishing up, I glanced through the windows toward the front of the store and saw a pair of elderly gentlemen sitting in the rockers on the porch. Just what I’d been hoping for. Rising from my seat, I approached the register. Claude, without the apron and shiny face, seemed far more content than he was the last time I’d been here. “Hey, Claude,” I greeted him. “Is that your father out front?” He leaned forward to peek over my shoulder. “Yeah, that’s him. The one with the overalls. The other guy is Jerrold.” “Do you think your dad would mind if I spoke with him about my grandfather?” “Feel free. Can’t guarantee he’ll know anything. Assuming he even hears what you’re asking.” “Of course.” “Word of advice? Watch out for Jerrold. Half the time, I have no idea what he’s talking about or what he finds so funny.” I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly but I nodded. “How long do you think your father will be here?” “They haven’t eaten yet, so I reckon he’ll be here at least another hour.” “What does he usually have for lunch?” “The barbecue sandwich with slaw. And hush puppies.” “How about I buy that for him?” “Why? It’s not like I can charge him. He still owns a portion of the store.” “I figure if I’m going to try to get some information from him, it’s the least I can do.” “It’s your money.” He shrugged. I pulled some cash from my wallet and handed it over, watching as he added it to the drawer. He cupped a hand at the corner of his mouth and called across the store. “Hey, Frank. Get Daddy the usual, okay? And hand it to Trevor here. He’ll bring it out.” The meal didn’t take long to prepare and when it was ready, I ferried the plate to the front door. As I passed the register, Claude loosened the cap on a Yoo-hoo, then tightened it slightly before holding it out to me. “You’ll need this, too.” “Yoo-hoo?” “It’s his favorite. He’s been drinking it as long as I can remember.” I took the bottle and with my hands full, I used my hips to push open the door. As I approached, Jim looked up, his face as gnarled and wrinkled as his hands, all bone and skin and liver spots. He wore glasses and a few of his teeth were missing, but I thought I saw a spark of curiosity in his expression that made me believe he was sharper, and more aware, than Claude’s description of him might indicate. Then again, maybe I was just being optimistic. “Hi, Jim. I thought I’d bring out your lunch,” I started. “I was hoping to talk to you for a few minutes.” Jim squinted up at me. “Huh?” Jerrold leaned toward Jim. “Boy here wants to talk to you,” Jerrold shouted. “Talk about what?” Jim asked. “How the hell should I know? He just walked out here.” “Who is he?” Jim asked. Jerrold swiveled his gaze toward me. He was younger than Jim, but still well past retirement age. I noticed a hearing aid, which might—or might not—make things easier. He leaned toward Jim again. “I’m figurin’ he’s a salesman,” Jerrold shouted. “Maybe selling them women’s panties.” I blinked, unsure whether to be offended, and suddenly remembered what Claude had told me. “Tell him to talk to Claude,” Jim said with a wave. “I’m retired. I don’t need nothing from any salesman.” “The hell you don’t,” Jerrold said to him. “You need a woman and one of them winning lotto tickets, if you ask me.” “Huh?” Jerrold leaned back in his seat with mirth in his eyes. “Women’s panties.” He cackled, clearly pleased with himself. “You sellin’ women’s panties?” “No,” I said, “I’m not a salesman. I just wanted to speak with Jim.” “About what?” “About my grandfather,” I said. “And I brought Jim his lunch.” “Then don’t just stand there.” He waved a bony hand at me. “Give it to him. Don’t be slow, now.” I leaned down and handed Jim his lunch. As I did, Jerrold frowned, the grooves in his forehead so deep they could hold a pencil. “Where’s my lunch?” Jerrold demanded. I hadn’t expected the question but realized that I probably should have considered the idea they’d want to eat together. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. What would you like? I’d be happy to get you something.” “Hmmmm,” Jerrold said, bringing a hand to his chin. “How about filet mignon with a lobster tail and lots of butter, with some of that rice pilaf?” He’d pronounced it pea-laff. “Do they serve that here?” I asked. “Of course they don’t. You need to order it special, from one of them fancy places.” I assumed he meant a different restaurant—a real restaurant—and I was caught off guard. “Where would I order that?” I asked. “What’s he saying?” Jim asked. Jerrold leaned toward Jim again. “He’s saying he won’t buy me lunch,” Jerrold shouted. “And he says he’ll buy you a Cadillac if you’ll talk to him.” I blinked, wondering how I’d lost control of the conversation. A Cadillac? Where did that come from? “I didn’t say that,” I protested. “And I’d be glad to get you anything the grill offers…” Jerrold slapped his thigh, not letting me finish before suddenly locking eyes with me again. “Boy, you is dumb as dirt. A Cadillac! What on earth would he do with a Cadillac? He can barely drive as it is.” He shook his head, cackling. “A Cadillac!” he shouted to Jim. Standing in place, I could think of nothing to say. Jerrold didn’t seem to need me to say anything; he was too happy with himself to care what I might be thinking. Jim, meanwhile, struck me as oblivious. I decided to seize the initiative. “I was hoping to ask Jim about my grandfather, Carl Haverson.” Jerrold reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of snuff. After opening the package, he pinched a few of the leaves together before placing them between his lip and gum. His mouth made a few contortions and he settled back in the chair, looking like he had a tumorous growth in his jaw. “You’re telling me that you’re kin to Carl?” “He was my grandfather,” I said again. “I’m trying to learn what he was doing in South Carolina. Claude said Jim and my grandfather were close and I was hoping he could answer some questions.” “Might be hard,” Jerrold said. “Jim here, he don’t hear too well. And he wanders when he talks. Half the time, you don’t know what he means.” I could say the same about you, I thought. “It’s important,” I said instead. “Maybe you can help?” “Don’t know how.” “Did you know my grandfather? Did you speak with him before he left?” “Sure,” he drawled. “I got out here now and then and we’d talk. Not as much as Jim here, though. But then, one week, he wasn’t around, so it was just me and Jim. I was as surprised as anyone when I found out what happened to him. Carl was in good health as far as I knew.” “How about the trip to South Carolina? Did you know anything about that?” “He never mentioned anything about it to me.” “Was he acting differently? Anything like that?” Jerrold shook his head. “Not that I could tell.” I rocked back on my heels, wondering if I was wasting my time. Surprising me, Jerrold slowly rose from the chair. He had to grip both arms and moving into the vertical position seemed both laborious and painful. “You two go ahead and visit,” he said. “Maybe Jim knows something I don’t. He knew Carl better than I did. But talk loud, toward his right ear. It barely works, but don’t even bother trying with the left one.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “You’ll need my chair. He won’t admit it, but he needs to be able to see your lips moving so he can figure out what you’re saying. He’ll get about half of what you say, so just keep trying.” “Where are you going?” Jim said. “I’m hungry,” Jerrold shouted. “I want some food.” “Huh?” Jerrold waved him off and looked toward me. “Don’t just stand there looking dumb as a tree. Take a seat. I’ll be back.” I watched as Jerrold shuffled toward the door, and when he was safely inside, I sat in the same rocker, then leaned forward as Jerrold had done. “Hi,” I shouted. “I’m Trevor Benson.” “River fencing?” “Trevor Benson,” I said again. “I’m Carl’s grandkid.” “Who?” “Carl!” I said even louder, wondering if I should have kept Jerrold around to translate. “Oh, Carl,” Jim said. “He passed on.” “I know. He was my kin,” I said, hoping Jerrold’s phrasing would help. Jim squinted at me and I could tell he was searching. It took a few beats. “The Navy doc? You were married to Claire, right?” “Yes,” I said, even though Claire had been my mother. No reason to make it any more complicated than it already was. “He sure liked those bees, old Carl,” Jim added. “Had them a long time. Beehives. For the honey.” “Yes.” I nodded. “I wanted to speak to you about Carl.” “I don’t much like bees,” he said. “Never could figure out what he saw in ’em.” Trying to keep it simple, I opted for the direct approach. “I have some questions that I was hoping you could answer.” Jim didn’t seem to hear me. “Carl had a hard time with the honey last summer,” Jim said. “Arthritis.” He pronounced it arthur-itis. “He probably did…” “He got help from the girl, though,” Jim added, not hearing me. “Girl?” “Yeah,” Jim said. “The girl. Inside.” “Okay,” I said, wondering what he was talking about. I hadn’t seen any girls in the store today, but Claude had warned me his mind wandered. Leaving that behind, I leaned closer, speaking slowly and replicating Jerrold’s volume. “Do you know why Carl went to South Carolina?” “Carl died in South Carolina.” “I know,” I said. “Do you know why Carl went to South Carolina?” I asked again. Jim took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly before answering. “I reckon he was going to visit Helen.” For a second, I wondered if he’d understood my question. “Helen? He was going to visit Helen?” I shouted. “Yep. Helen. That’s what he told me.” Or was that what Jim had heard? How much could I trust his hearing? Or the competence of his memory? I wasn’t sure. “When did he tell you about Helen?” “Huh?” I repeated the question, even louder this time, and Jim reached for a hush puppy. He took a bite and it took him a long time to finally swallow. “I reckon about a week or so before he left. He was working on the truck.” To make sure it could get there, no doubt, but…who was Helen? How would my grandfather have met a woman from South Carolina? He had neither a computer nor a cell phone, and he rarely left New Bern. It didn’t add up… “How did Carl meet Helen?” “Huh?” “Helen.” “I reckon that’s what he said.” “Did Helen live in Easley?” “What’s Easley?” “The town in South Carolina.” He picked up another hush puppy. “Don’t know much about South Carolina. I was stationed there during the Korean War, but said good riddance as soon as I got out. Too hot, too far from home. The drill sergeant there…oh what was his name…R-something…like a joke…” As he was searching the past, I tried to figure out what he’d told me, assuming Jim wasn’t completely bonkers. A woman named Helen was in Easley and my grandfather had gone to visit her? “Riddle!” Jim suddenly shouted. “That’s his name. Sergeant Riddle. Meanest, orneriest man there ever was. One time, he made us sleep in the bog. Dank and dirty place, and so many mosquitoes. They bit all night till I swelled up like a tick. Had to go to the infirmary.” “Did you ever meet Helen?” “Nope.” He reached for his Yoo-hoo but even though Claude had loosened the cap, he struggled to open it. I watched as he took a drink, still trying to sort it out, but suspecting he had nothing else to offer. “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.” He lowered the bottle. “The girl might know more about it.” It took me a second to recall what he’d said earlier. “The girl inside?” He motioned with the bottle toward the window. “Can’t remember her name. He liked her.” “Helen?” “No. The one inside.” I’ll admit I was completely lost by then and as if on cue, Jerrold pushed out the door, carrying a plate similar to the one I’d brought out to Jim. Eastern North Carolina barbecue, which is flavored with vinegar and red pepper flakes, is different from barbecue anywhere else in the world. When Jerrold was close, I stood from the chair, making room. “You two about done?” he asked. I thought about it, wondering what if anything I’d learned, or how much of it was even real. “Yes,” I said, “I think we’re through.” “I warned you, he can wander a bit when he talks,” Jerrold admitted. “Did you get the answers you needed?” “I’m not sure,” I said. “He said my grandfather was going to visit Helen. And he mentioned something about a girl inside, but I have no idea what he was talking about.” “I think I might have part of the answer to that.” “What part?” “The girl inside,” Jerrold said. “He was talking about Callie. She and your grandfather were pretty close.” * * * Claude was still at the register when I reentered the store. There were a handful of customers in line and I waited until he finished before approaching. “How’d it go?” he asked. “Still trying to figure it out,” I said. “Do you know when Callie will be working again?” “She’s here now,” Claude answered. “But she’s on break. She should be back in a few minutes.” Which explains why I hadn’t noticed her earlier. “Do you know where she is?” “If she’s not feeding the cat, she usually eats at the picnic table down by the dock,” Claude said. “Thanks,” I said, pushing back out the door again. Figuring it would be easier to talk while she wasn’t on the clock, I rounded the side of the store, to a path that led toward the creek. I knew there was not only a picnic table there, but also some gas pumps near the water’s edge where boats could fill their tanks. I’d been there with my grandfather numerous times. The path wound through some trees and shrubbery, but when the view finally cleared, I saw Callie sitting at the table. As I crossed the grass, I noted the basic lunch she’d clearly brought from home. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, container of milk, and an apple—most of it nearly finished—in a brown bag. Hearing me approach, she glanced in my direction, then back to the creek again. “Callie?” I asked when I was close. “Claude told me that I might find you here.” She turned her attention back to me, her expression wary. I wondered why she wasn’t in school, and noticed another bruise on her arm, close to the one I’d seen when she’d walked past my house. Instead of speaking, she took another bite of her sandwich, nearly finishing it. Remembering her general wariness, I stopped just short of the table, not wanting to crowd her. “I was hoping to speak with you about my grandfather,” I said. “I heard that you helped him harvest the honey last summer.” “Who told you that?” “Does it matter?” “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. Her comment caught me off guard. “I’m not implying that you did. I’m just trying to figure out why he went to South Carolina.” “Why would you think I know anything about that?” “I was told that the two of you were close.” Standing from the table, she shoved the last of her sandwich into her mouth and followed it with a final gulp of milk before stuffing the remains of her lunch into the bag. “I really can’t talk right now. I have to get back to work and I can’t be late.” “I understand,” I said. “And I’m not trying to get you in trouble. Like I said, I’m just trying to figure out what happened to my grandfather.” “I don’t know anything,” she repeated. “Did you help him harvest the honey?” “He paid me,” she said, color rising like a stain in her pale cheeks. “I didn’t steal any, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t steal anything.” “I’m sure you didn’t. Why didn’t you tell me that you knew him as well as you did?” “I don’t know you or anything about you.” “You knew I was related to him.” “So?” “Callie—” “I didn’t do anything wrong!” she cried again, cutting me off. “I was walking by and he saw me and he asked if I wanted to help him with the honey, so I did. It only took a couple of days and after that, I put the labels on and stacked them on the shelves. Then he paid me. That’s it.” I tried to imagine my grandfather asking her on a whim for help with the harvest, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t. And based on the conversations we’d had to this point, I couldn’t imagine her agreeing to such a thing, either. At the same time, there was some truth there; she had, by her own admission, helped him harvest the honey. What, I wondered, was she not telling me? “Did he ever mention that he was going to visit Helen?” Her eyes suddenly widened and for the first time, I thought I saw a flash of actual fear. As quickly as it came, however, it vanished with an angry shake of her head. “I’m sorry about your grandfather, okay? He was a nice old man. And I was happy to help him with the honey. But I don’t know anything about why he went to South Carolina, and I’d appreciate it if you just left me alone.” I said nothing. She lifted her chin defiantly, before finally turning around and heading back toward the store. On her way, she tossed the remains of her lunch into a garbage can without breaking stride. I watched her leave, wondering what it was that I’d said that had upset her so. * * * Back at home, I considered what, if anything, I’d actually learned. Could I trust what Jim had told me? Or Jerrold? Had my grandfather gone to Easley because of a woman named Helen? And what was I to make of my conversation with Callie? What had I said to make her believe she was in trouble? I didn’t know. And yet, as I continued to reflect on my encounter with Callie, I had the gnawing sensation that she’d said something—or I’d seen something—important. It was the answer to one of my many questions, but the harder I tried to zero in on it, the hazier my thoughts became. It felt like I was trying to grab a handful of smoke. Chapter 9 On Wednesday, while pondering my maybe-but-not-guaranteed date with Natalie, I decided to take my grandfather’s boat out to try to find the alligators and bald eagles I’d heard about the day before. I made a quick inspection before untying the lines and starting the motor. There were no other boats in the vicinity, which was fortunate, because I would need to get used to the steering again. I had no desire to participate in a water-based demolition derby or accidentally run aground, so I gently eased the throttle, turning the wheel as I pulled away from the dock. To my surprise, the boat was a lot easier to maneuver than I remembered, which meant my grandfather must have done some work on it, and I was quickly able to get it headed in the proper direction like the highly skilled Naval Academy graduate that I was supposed to be. As a kid, I always loved going out with my grandfather on the boat, but unlike most people, who preferred the wider Trent and Neuse Rivers, I always favored Brices Creek. Because the creek wound its way through the Croatan National Forest, it probably hadn’t changed since settlers first arrived in the area in the early 1700s. In a way, it felt like traveling back in time, and when my grandfather shut down the engine, we would hear nothing but birdcalls from the trees, while every now and then a fish would jump, making ripples on the otherwise black and silent water. I settled into the ride, keeping to the middle of the creek. As ugly as it was, the ride itself was surprisingly stable. My grandfather had built the boat the way he had because Rose was afraid of the water. As an epileptic whose seizures grew in frequency and intensity as she’d aged, she’d never learned to swim, so he’d designed something impossible to capsize or sink, with rails to keep her from falling overboard. Even then, it usually took some convincing for Rose to accompany him, so my grandfather often went alone, at least until my mom was old enough to join him. When I began spending my summers with him, we spent almost every afternoon on the water. Boating always seemed to put my grandfather in a contemplative mood. Sometimes, he would tell stories about his childhood, which was far more interesting than my own, or talk about bees or his work at the mill, or what my mom had been like as a child. Almost always, though, his thoughts would turn to Rose, melancholy settling over him like a familiar shawl. The older he got, the more he repeated himself, and by the time of my last visit, I’d heard all of his stories often enough to recite them by heart. But I would listen without interruption, watching as he lost himself in the memories, because I knew how much she’d meant to him. I had to admit, their story was charming; it harkened to a place and time I knew only from black-and-white movies, a world replete with dirt roads and homemade bamboo fishing poles and neighbors who sat on their front porches to beat the heat, waving to passersby. After the war, my grandfather had first spotted Rose having a soda with her friends outside the drugstore, and he’d been so taken with her that he swore to his friends that he’d seen the woman he would one day marry. After that, he saw Rose everywhere, outside Christ Episcopal Church with her mother or strolling through the Piggly Wiggly, and she began to notice him as well. Later in the summer, at the county fair, there was a dance. Rose was there with her friends and though it took him most of the evening to work up the courage to cross the floor to ask her to dance, she told him that she’d been waiting all night for him to do just that. They married less than six months later. They spent their honeymoon in Charleston before returning to New Bern to settle into their life together. He built the house, and both of them wanted a brood of children. However, perhaps because of Rose’s condition, one miscarriage followed another, five in total over an eight-year period. Just when they’d given up hope, my mother was conceived, and the pregnancy went the distance. They considered my mom a gift from God, and my grandfather swore that Rose had never been more beautiful than when he saw mother and daughter together, playing hopscotch or reading or even standing on the porch, shaking dirt from the rugs. Years later, when my mom went off to college on a full scholarship, my grandfather told me that he and Rose enjoyed a second honeymoon, one that lasted until their very last day together. Every morning, he would head out early to pick Rose a bouquet of flowers; she would make breakfast, and the two of them would eat together on the back porch, while watching the mist rise slowly from the water. He would kiss her before heading off to work and again when he returned at the end of the day; they held hands as they took their evening walk, as though touch could somehow make up for the lost hours they’d spent apart. My grandfather found her on the kitchen floor on a Saturday, after he’d spent an afternoon building additional hives. He took her lifeless body in his arms and held her. He cried for more than an hour before finally calling the authorities. He was so destroyed that for the first time ever, my mom took a monthlong leave of absence from her practice and came down to stay with him. He spent part of the following year carving her headstone himself, and up until our last phone call, I knew he continued to visit her grave every single week. There was Rose and only Rose; he’d always sworn no one could ever replace her. There was no reason to doubt him and I never did. Toward the end, my grandfather was more than ninety years old, with arthritis and a dying truck; he led a simple life that included tending to honey bees and tinkering with the boat, all the while cherishing the memories of a wife that he could never forget. I turned all these things over in my mind while my thoughts circled back to my conversation with Jim. I tried to reconcile Jim’s comments with the grandfather I’d known but simply couldn’t do it. Despite what I’d been told, I knew with sudden certainty that my grandfather had never, nor would have ever, gone to South Carolina to visit a woman named Helen. * * * I continued upstream, motoring from one curve to the next, eventually reaching the public boat ramp in the Croatan National Forest. Interesting tidbit about the forest: It’s one of the few places in the world where you can find Venus flytraps and other carnivorous plants growing in the wild. My grandfather used to bring me out to search for them. Somehow, despite constant poaching, they’re still relatively common. The boat ramp was one of the reference points I’d overheard at the Trading Post. Supposedly, the eagles and alligators were a couple of curves farther upstream, but for all I knew, it might be zero or ten curves. The guy’s description had been a little vague, so I slowed the boat and scanned the trees on either side of the creek. The problem, I soon realized, was that I had no idea what I was supposed to look for. Technology, however, is a wonderful thing. Pulling out my phone, I did a quick internet search and was able to find images of bald eagles’ nests. To my eye, they looked like regular birds’ nests, only much larger, which made me feel foolish for not assuming that in the first place. In the end, I finally spotted it high in the branches of a cypress tree, a feat made even simpler by the fact that mama or papa eagle was sitting in the nest, while the mate perched in the limbs of a nearby tree. It wasn’t two bends in the river past the boat ramp, by the way, but four. I stopped the boat and scanned the banks for the alligators but had less luck there. I did note a cleared and muddy spot with some telltale burrows, however. Having lived in Florida, I’d seen them before. Unfortunately, no alligators were around, but alligators were territorial, which meant it was likely that they’d return. In the meantime, my gaze was drawn toward the bald eagles and I snapped some pics with my phone. With brown bodies and white heads, they looked just like the one on the Great Seal of the United States, my first sighting of them in the wild. It soon became rather boring, though. Aside from occasionally turning their heads, they didn’t move much, and after a while, they were no more exciting to watch than the trees. I wondered if there were eggs in the nest, but I soon noticed a pair of baby eaglets. Every now and then, one or both of the little ones would poke up their heads and I had the urge to tell someone about it. Reaching for my phone again, I typed out a quick message to Natalie. Do you have time to chat later? Again, I found myself watching the phone to see if she’d read it; to my surprise, her response came quickly: I’ll probably have some time around 8. I smiled, thinking that things with Natalie were getting interesting. It wasn’t exactly my grandfather and Rose, but definitely interesting. * * * There was still no word from the ambulance companies, but I figured that I’d give them until Monday before I contacted them again. Despite that, the rest of my afternoon was productive, if you consider taking a long nap after a leisurely boat ride productive. For dinner, I decided to eat at Morgan’s Tavern. Located downtown, it was my kind of place: wood floors, lots of rustic brick, high-beamed ceilings, and an extensive menu. It was bustling, so I ended up sitting at one of the tables in the bar, but the service was quick and the food was tasty. A good place to kill time until I called Natalie. Not wanting to be too punctual, I dialed seven minutes after the hour. Perhaps not wanting to appear too eager, Natalie answered on the fourth ring. Oh, the silly games people play… “Hey there,” I said. “How was work?” “Fine, but I’m glad I’m on days for the next few weeks. It’s hard for me to sleep when the sun is shining. My body just doesn’t like it.” “You should do a residency. Then you never have to sleep at all.” She giggled. “What’s going on?” “You’ll never guess where I went today,” I said. “You called because you want me to guess?” “No,” I said. “I went out on the creek today.” “On your grandfather’s boat?” “I prefer to think of it as a yacht.” “Ah,” she said, amusement in her voice. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because I was hunting for alligators.” “Don’t tell me you found one.” “I didn’t, but I’m pretty sure I know where to find them. I was thinking we might try to find them on Saturday. We could take the boat out, maybe follow that up with dinner at my place. How does that sound?” A second of silence on the line. Then: “Won’t it be crowded on the water this weekend?” Your grandfather’s boat draws way too much interest from others, she didn’t have to add, and I’d prefer that no one else know I’m spending time with you. “Not where we’d be going. We’ll be heading up the creek, probably in late afternoon. It’s usually pretty quiet. And afterward, we’d eat at my place. I can grill a mean steak.” “I don’t eat red meat.” Natalie, I was beginning to learn, seldom offered a simple yes or no, but I was growing used to it. “I can grill seafood if you’d prefer,” I suggested. “Seafood’s okay, right?” “Yes.” “Then how about coming by around four thirty? We’ll spend a couple of hours on the boat, head back, fire up the grill. Maybe open a bottle of wine. And I promise that even if we don’t find the alligators, you’ll see something pretty amazing.” “What is it?” “It’s a surprise. What do you think?” “Four thirty?” “We could go earlier, but I wouldn’t go later or we’ll lose the daylight when we’re on the water.” In the silence that followed, I tried and failed to imagine her as she was speaking. Where was she? In her kitchen? The family room? Her bedroom? Finally, I heard her voice again. “All right,” she said, still sounding hesitant. “I guess I should drive to your place?” “If you’d rather, I could pick you up.” “That won’t be necessary,” she said. Because you don’t want me to know where you live? “Great,” I said, ignoring that internal query. “A couple of questions…are you okay with tuna?” “That’s fine.” “And my odds that you show are better than fifty-fifty this time?” “Ha ha,” she said. “I’ll be there at four thirty.” Maybe I was just imagining it, but I think there was a little part of her that was flattered by my persistence. “Good night, Trevor.” “Good night, Natalie.” * * * On Thursday, I heard from the first of the ambulance companies, who let me know that they hadn’t attended to or transported my grandfather. On Friday, I heard from the second one and struck pay dirt. After a brief conversation, I was emailed a scanned copy of the report. I read that my grandfather, Carl Haverson, had been picked up near mile marker 7 on Highway 123, and transported to Baptist Easley Hospital. Though light on details, the report showed that he was unconscious, with a thready pulse. Oxygen was administered en route, and he reached the hospital at 8:17 a.m. It wasn’t much information and told me little that I didn’t already know, other than the pickup location. A quick search on the internet, including Google Earth, showed a stretch of highway near a dilapidated strip mall, which didn’t add any helpful information, primarily because I had no idea of what exactly had led to the call in the first place. He could have been walking to his truck or already driving or heading into a restaurant. I didn’t know who’d called the ambulance, or even what near mile marker 7 actually meant. Perhaps the only way to find the answers to any of these questions was to go there and check it out. But noting the time of his arrival triggered an additional thought, one that I should have realized before. Easley was at least six hours away by car; in my grandfather’s truck, at his age, it might have taken him as long as nine hours to get there. Had he driven through the night? Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine that. He was, and always had been, an early riser. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize him getting into the truck early in the morning, after sleeping in a hotel or motel… Where, then, had he stayed the night? Near Easley? Farther east? Also, if he’d been found near the truck, I knew there was no way it would still be sitting alongside the highway, not after six months. So how was I going to find it? I wrestled with the questions on and off the rest of the day, without answers. What I did finally come to accept, however, was that a road trip to Easley was in my very near future. To understand what had happened to my grandfather, I knew I had no choice but to go there. Chapter 10 Saturday felt like early summer, at least while I was out for my run. By the time I finished, I was able to wring the perspiration from my shirt before showering, which was kind of gross, but reminded me of the years I’d actually been an athlete, as opposed to a guy who was simply trying to keep his pants from nipping at the waist. After breakfast, I cleaned the house again, paying special attention to the kitchen and bathrooms, then hauled the small dining room table and chairs out to the back porch. I rearranged the rockers, slid the grill to a new spot, and rifled through the cabinets and closets for a tablecloth and candles, doing my best to create a subtly romantic ambiance. Getting the boat ready was more of a chore. While I didn’t care whether the recliners were ratty or moldy, I figured she might, and I had to run to the store to buy the cleanser I needed. After detouring to the grocery store, I then took the boat to the gas pumps at the Trading Post to fill the tank, but it took longer than expected due to the long line. Three different people whipped out their phones to take photographs of me while I was in the queue, being that I was so handsome and all. Then again, maybe they were more interested in the boat. Who knew? I set the table, added flowers from the front yard to the vase, put the bottles of wine in the refrigerator to chill, chopped vegetables, and tossed a salad. I loaded the cooler with ice, beer, soda, and bottles of water and ferried it to the boat, along with a snack platter. By that point, it was midafternoon; I tried and failed to remember the last time it had taken me so long to get ready for a date. I showered for the second time that day and considering the sultry temperature, my instincts told me that shorts and a T-shirt would be most appropriate for the boat. Instead, I opted for jeans, a blue button-up shirt, and Top-Siders. I rolled up my sleeves and hoped the breeze would keep me from sweating through my shirt. I should have listened to my instincts. Natalie showed up a few minutes later, stepping out of her car in jean shorts, sunglasses, sandals, and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, a casually sexy appearance that registered immediately. I swallowed hard. After collecting a medium-sized canvas bag from the passenger seat, she turned, stopping in her tracks when she saw me. “I thought you said we were going on the boat.” “We are,” I said. “This is my captain’s uniform.” “You’re going to get hot…” Yes, I am, I thought, already feeling the sun beating down on me. “I’ll be fine…” Approaching her car, I was unsure whether to lean in for a hug or stand in place like an idiot. I opted for the latter. She acted equally uncertain, which made me wonder whether she was as nervous as I. I doubted it, but it still made me feel better. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring anything,” she said, motioning to the car. “But I have a small cooler in the back seat with drinks.” “I put some in the boat already, but I’m happy to load what you brought just in case.” Opening the back door, I retrieved the cooler. “How’s your day been?” she asked as we walked toward the house. “Relaxing,” I lied. “You?” “Typical Saturday.” “Farmers’ market?” “Among other things.” She shrugged. “Do you really think we’ll find an alligator?” “I hope so,” I said. “But no guarantees.” “If we do, it’ll still be a first. That’s always kind of exciting.” “What’s in your bag?” “Clothes for later,” she said. “I didn’t want to get cold.” Frankly, I would have been happy if she stayed in the outfit she was wearing, but I kept quiet. I pushed the front door open. “Come on in. Feel free to leave your bag anywhere.” “How long do you think we’ll be on the boat?” “Hard to say. But we’ll definitely be back before dark.” She dug out some sunscreen from her bag while following me through the house and onto the back porch. When she saw all I’d done, she arched an eyebrow. “Wow,” she said. “You’ve been busy.” “My parents raised me to make a good impression.” “You already have,” she said, “or I wouldn’t have agreed to come.” For the first time in her presence, I was at a loss for words. I think she knew she’d thrown me because she laughed. “All right,” she went on. “Let’s get on the boat and find some alligators.” I led the way down to the dock, setting her cooler next to mine as we climbed on board. The boat rocked slightly under our shifting weights. “I’ve never been on a yacht before,” she cooed, picking up the thread of my earlier joke. “I hope it’s safe.” “Don’t worry. She’s seaworthy.” I hopped back on the dock briefly to untie the ropes, then rejoined her, asking, “Would you like a beer or glass of wine before we get going?” “A beer sounds good.” I reached into my cooler and pulled out a Yuengling. Twisting off the cap, I handed it to her. I opened a beer for myself as well, privately celebrating our first drink together. I held my bottle toward her. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “Cheers.” She tapped her bottle against mine before taking a small sip. “This is good,” she commented, inspecting the label. Wasting no time, I moved to the stern and started the engine with a pull of the cord. Back in the cockpit, I increased the throttle and inched away from the dock. I made my way toward the middle of the creek, grateful for the breeze. I could already feel a thin sheen of perspiration beginning to form, but Natalie seemed more than comfortable. She stood at the railing, watching the scenery with her hair fanning out behind her, gorgeous in the sunlight. I found myself admiring her legs before I turned my attention back to steering the boat. Crashing might mar the good impression I’d made earlier, what with the whole tablecloth-and-candles-on-the-porch thing. We puttered through one wide turn after the next. Housing on either side of the creek gave way to fishing camps dotting only one bank; and after that, nothing but wilderness. Meanwhile, despite my lack of depth perception, I expertly avoided various hazards and would have pointed out my boating mastery to her, but for the ubiquitous presence of neon-colored buoys alerting boaters to keep a safe distance. After slathering sunscreen on her arms and legs, Natalie joined me in the cockpit. “This is the first time I’ve gone up Brices Creek,” she said. “It’s beautiful.” “How can you live here and never come up this way?” “No boat,” she said. “I mean, I’ve been on the Trent River and the Neuse River with friends, but we never came up this way.” “I thought you don’t go out much.” “I don’t,” she said. “Not lately, anyway.” Though I could have asked her why, I could tell she didn’t want me to. “If you’re hungry, there are some snacks on the table.” “Thanks, but I’m fine for now. I can’t remember the last time I had a beer, so I’m kind of enjoying this.” She stared out at the slow-moving black water, clutching her cold bottle and basking in the sun. “How did you know where to find the alligators?” she asked. “I overheard some people talking when I had lunch at the Trading Post, so I decided to check it out.” “I’ve never eaten there.” “Believe it or not, the food is actually pretty good.” “I’ve heard that. But it’s kind of far from where I live.” “Nothing is far away in New Bern.” “I know, but I spend so much time behind the wheel when I’m on duty that I get sick of driving.” “You drove here and my place isn’t far from the Trading Post.” “The Trading Post doesn’t have tablecloths and candles.” I chuckled. We continued upstream, trees pushing in from the banks, the water ahead as flat as a billiard table. Here and there, we saw the occasional dock, overgrown and rotting, jutting into the creek. Above us, an osprey circled. Natalie continued to stand beside me, and I had the sense that something had changed between us. Every now and then, she took a sip of her beer and I wondered whether she’d been nervous about our date. Was she seeing someone else? I still thought it likely, but if that was the case, why had she come today or gone to dinner with me? Because she was bored or unhappy? Or simply lonely? And what was he like? How long had they been going out? It was also possible that she’d just been curious about the alligators and viewed me as a friend, but then why stand so close to me? She knew I was attracted to her. Common sense indicated that asking her to a second dinner in as many weekends meant something more than a desire for simple friendship, yet she’d agreed to meet me again. If she really was dating someone else, how would she explain her absence today? Did he live out of town? Was he in the military and deployed elsewhere? As usual, I had no answers. The creek continued to narrow until we reached the boat ramp and entered the national forest. On the dock, I saw a father and son fishing; they waved as we motored past. Though I was only half-done with my beer, it was already growing warm. Leaning over the railing, I dumped the remainder and slid the empty bottle into the wastebasket in the cockpit. “How much longer?” Her voice drifted back to me. “Almost there,” I answered. “Another few minutes.” Rounding the final bend, I began to slow the boat. In the treetop, I spotted one of the eagles sitting in the nest, though its mate wasn’t around. Up ahead, on the opposite side of the creek, in the small muddy clearing, were two alligators sunning themselves. They were juveniles, no more than five feet from nose to the tip of their tail, but it still felt like a stroke of luck. “There they are,” I said, waving her over. She ran toward the bow, vibrating with excitement. “I can’t believe it,” she offered. “They’re right there!” Turning the wheel, I tried to angle the boat so we could sit in the recliners and enjoy the wildlife. Satisfied, I shut off the engine, then retreated to the stern to drop anchor, feeling the rope tighten as it caught on the bottom. By then, Natalie had pulled out her phone and begun to take pictures. “There’s something else, too,” I reminded her. “The surprise I told you about.” “What?” I pointed at the treetop. “There’s an eagle’s nest right over there, and there are eaglets, too. They’re kind of hard to spot, but keep your eye out.” Natalie looked from the eagles to the alligators and back again while I removed the plastic cover from the tray of food and grabbed another beer from the cooler. I popped a strawberry into my mouth and settled into one of the recliners. Leaning back, I used the lever to raise the leg support. “Comfy?” Natalie smirked. “My grandfather was a wise man when it came to luxury.” Natalie picked a few grapes from the platter and took a seat, though she didn’t fully recline the chair. “I can’t believe I’ve finally seen an alligator,” she marveled. “You mention a desire, I make it happen. I’m a bit like a genie in that way.” She made a face, but I could tell she was warming to my humor. I balanced a piece of cheese on a cracker as Natalie set her beer on the table. “So…is this your thing?” she asked. “I don’t know what you mean.” “All of this,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “The setup back at your house, boat rides, surprises. Is this how you generally try to pick up women?” “Not always.” I took a meek sip of my beer. “Then why the big show today?” “Because I thought you’d enjoy it.” I leaned my bottle toward hers. “To the alligators.” “And the eagle,” she agreed reluctantly, reaching for her bottle and tapping it against mine. “But don’t try to change the subject.” “I’m not sure what the subject is.” “I get the vibe that you’re a player. When it comes to women, I mean.” “Because I’m so clever and charismatic?” “Because I’m not na?ve.” “Fair enough.” I laughed. “But it’s not just me. You could have declined my invitation.” She reached for another grape. “I know,” she finally agreed, her voice dropping an octave. “Do you regret it?” “Actually, I don’t.” “You sound surprised.” “I am,” she said, and for the next few minutes, neither of us said anything. Instead, we took in the view, Natalie finally spotting the eaglets in the nest. She lifted her phone to get some pics, but by that time, they’d ducked below the rim of the nest again. I heard her sigh, squinting at me. “Have you ever been in love?” she asked. Though I hadn’t expected the question, an unbidden memory of Sandra rose to the surface. “I think so,” I said. “You think?” “When we were together, I thought I was,” I admitted. “But now, I’m not sure.” “Why wouldn’t you be sure?” “If I were really in love, I think I’d miss her more than I do. I’d think about her more.” “Who was she?” I hesitated. “She was a trauma nurse—her name was Sandra. She was smart. Beautiful. Passionate about her work. We met in Pensacola and we were happy together at first, but it got complicated after I was deployed to Afghanistan.” I shrugged. “When I came back, I…” I looked over at her. “I already told you I wasn’t in a good space mentally or emotionally, and I took it out on her. I’m amazed she put up with me for as long as she did.” “How long were you together?” “A little more than two years. But you have to remember, I was gone a lot of the time. By the end, I wondered how well we even knew each other. After we broke up, it took me a while to understand that I missed the idea of having someone, as opposed to missing her. I knew I never loved her the way my grandfather loved my grandmother, or even the way my parents loved each other. My grandfather was a true romantic; my parents were partners and friends and they complemented each other perfectly. I didn’t feel either of those things with Sandra. I don’t know. Maybe I just wasn’t ready.” “Or maybe she wasn’t the one.” “Maybe.” “Anyone else? When you were younger maybe?” For whatever reason, my mind flashed to Yoga Girl, but I shook my head. “I went out with girls in high school and college, but nothing monumental. After my parents died, while in medical school and residency, I told myself that I was too busy for anything serious.” “You probably were.” I smiled, appreciating the response, even if we both knew it was an excuse. “How about you? You said that you’ve been in love? Are you more the romantic type, or the partner-and-friends type?” “Both,” she said. “I wanted it all.” “Did you get it?” “Yes,” she said. She held up her bottle, still half-full. “What should I do with this?” “I’ll take it,” I said, reaching for her bottle. I rose from my seat, emptied the remains into the creek, and put the empty beside my own in the wastebasket. On my way back, I gestured at the cooler. “Would you like another?” “Do you have bottled water?” “Of course. I came prepared.” I handed a water bottle to her before settling in my chair again. We continued to chat while we picked at the snacks, avoiding anything too personal. Our earlier discussion about love seemed to have butted up against some sort of internal personal limit of hers, so we talked about the town, the gun range where Natalie liked to shoot, and some of the more complicated surgeries I’d performed in the past. Eventually she was able to get photos of the eaglets and texted the images to me, something I realized only when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and checked the screen. As we floated in place, a thin layer of clouds had begun to form, turning the sun from yellow to orange, and when the sky began shading toward violet, I knew it was time to start back. I raised the anchor and started the motor, Natalie covering the snack tray before joining me in the cockpit. I drove faster on the return, making for a shorter trip, but was still amazed at how quickly time had passed. By the time I’d tied up the boat, dusk was settling in, the sky a brilliant palette, and crickets had begun to chirp. I helped Natalie to the dock, then handed the smaller cooler to her. Balancing the platter on the larger cooler, I walked beside her toward the back porch. Once on the porch, I lifted the cooler lid. “Would you like another bottle of water?” I asked. “Do you have any wine?” “Would you like red or white?” “White.” Heading inside, I pulled the wine from the refrigerator and located a corkscrew. Pouring two glasses, I returned to the porch. She was standing near the railing, watching the sunset. “Here you go,” I said, handing her a glass. “Sauvignon blanc.” “Thank you.” We took a sip in tandem, taking in the view. “I called the hospital, as you suggested,” I said. “About my grandfather.” “And?” “You were right—it was a critical first step.” I went on, filling her in. She listened carefully, her eyes never leaving my face. “Where do you think he was going? If it wasn’t Easley?” “I don’t know.” “But you don’t think he went to see Helen?” “Unless he’d undergone a radical change, I just can’t imagine him being interested in another woman. Not at his age, not so far away, and definitely not with the way he still spoke about my grandmother.” “He told me about her once,” Natalie mused. “He said she used to hum to herself in the kitchen when she was cooking and that sometimes, even now, he imagined he could still hear it.” “When did he tell you that?” “Last year, maybe? It was at the farmers’ market and I can’t remember how the subject even came up, but I recall thinking about that story when I got home. I could tell he still loved her.” “That’s what I mean,” I agreed. “He was a one-woman man.” She took another sip. “Do you believe in that? One woman for one man, for all time? The whole soul mate thing?” “I guess it’s possible for some couples—like them or maybe even my parents—but it’s probably more the exception than the rule. I think most people fall in love more than once in their life.” “And yet you’re unsure whether you’ve ever been in love.” “It’s not fair to paraphrase my earlier statements back to me.” She laughed. “So what are you going to do about your grandfather?” “I’m thinking about driving down to Easley on Tuesday. I want to find out where he was picked up and try to locate his truck. Maybe it’ll help me figure things out.” “That’s a long way to travel without much to go on,” she pointed out. “It should only take a couple of days.” As I spoke, I saw her shiver. She set her wineglass on the railing and rubbed her arms. “Sorry. I think I’m getting a little cold. Do you have a bathroom where I can change?” “The bathrooms are tiny, so feel free to use one of the bedrooms if you’d rather. Are you hungry yet? Do you want me to get the grill going?” She nodded. “I’m getting hungry, so that would be great. Do you think I could have a little more wine before I go in?” “Of course.” In the kitchen, I poured her more wine—she stopped me at half a glass—watching as she retrieved her bag from the family room and disappeared into the bedroom. Uncertain what she wanted for dinner—aside from the tuna—I’d dumped a lot of different options into the grocery cart earlier. There was not only a salad and green bean amandine, but rice pilaf and coleslaw as well. Lest anyone get too impressed, the rice pilaf came in a box with easy-to-prepare directions, and the coleslaw had come from the deli section of the grocery store. Sandra had taught me how to prepare green beans with olive oil, garlic, and slivers of almonds. I set the water boiling on the stove for the rice, scooped the coleslaw into a glass bowl and, along with the green salad and a bottle of dressing, brought all that to the table outside. I started the grill, added salt and pepper to the steak, and poured the rice and seasoning into the pot. After mixing soy sauce and wasabi for a dipping sauce for her tuna, I tossed the steak on the grill and returned to the kitchen for the green beans. The steak, rice, and beans cooked quickly; I covered them with foil and placed them in the oven to keep warm, but there was still no sign of Natalie. Her tuna would take only a minute or two to sear, so I didn’t bother starting it yet. Instead, I moved a speaker out onto the porch, then used my iPhone to play some favorite tunes of mine from the eighties. I took a seat in the rocker, sipped the wine I’d poured earlier, and watched the moon as it rose, glowing just above the trees. It was one of those beautiful crescent-shaped ones—waxing or waning, but I wasn’t sure which. At some point in the past year I had downloaded an app that told you everything about the constellations and where to find them in the night sky; it occurred to me that I could fire it up and then try to later impress Natalie with my knowledge of astronomy. But I dismissed the idea. She’d see right through me, for starters. Strangely, the more she rolled her eyes, the more I felt like I could simply be myself. I liked that—hell, Natalie was pretty much the entire package as far as I could tell—but what did it matter? I was leaving, so it wasn’t as though we had a chance at any kind of lasting relationship. I’d head off on my journey, she’d continue on her way, all of which meant there was no reason to get carried away, right? It was a familiar exercise for me. In high school, I’d kept an emotional distance from the girls I’d dated, and the same thing had happened in both college and medical school. With Sandra, it might have been different in the beginning, but toward the end, I could barely handle myself, let alone a relationship. While all of those women had their charms, it struck me that I was always thinking about the next phase of my life, one that didn’t include them. That might seem shallow and maybe it was, but I firmly believed that everyone should strive to be the best version of themselves that they can possibly be, a belief that sometimes required difficult choices. But Natalie had been wrong in thinking that it made me a player. I was more of a serial dater than a man on the prowl. Yoga Girl (Lisa? Elisa? Elise?) was the exception, not the rule. On the porch, I could feel the pull of my own behavioral history, warning me not to fall for a woman I would soon leave behind. Nothing good could come of that. She would be hurt and I would be hurt, and even if somehow we tried to make a go of it, I’d learned firsthand that distance can put a strain on any relationship. And yet… Something had changed between us, and there was no way I could deny it. Nor was I sure exactly when it happened. Maybe it was something as simple as a deeper level of comfort, but I realized that I craved more than a physical relationship with her. I wanted what we’d had when I’d shown her the beehives or ridden on the boat or sipped wine on the back porch. I wanted easy banter and deep communication and long periods when neither of us felt the need to say anything at all. I wanted to wonder what she was thinking, often to be surprised; I wanted her to gently trace the scar on my hand and show her the others that marked my skin. It all felt odd to me, even a bit frightening. Outside, the moon continued its slow rise, turning the lawn a bluish silver. A warm breeze gently stirred the leaves, like the sound of someone whispering. Stars above were reflected in the waters of the creek, and I suddenly understood why my grandfather had never wanted to leave. Behind me, I sensed a sudden dimming of light, heralding Natalie’s approach from within the house. Turning to greet her, I smiled automatically before fully registering the woman who stood before me in the doorway. For a moment, I could only stare, certain that I’d never seen someone more beautiful. Natalie was wearing a low-cut, sleeveless burgundy pencil dress that clung to her slender curves. Gone was the chain around her neck I’d never seen her without, and she was wearing wide-hooped earrings and sleek, delicate pumps. But it was her face that mesmerized me. She’d put on mascara, accentuating her thick eyelashes, and her expertly applied makeup gave her skin a luminous quality. I caught the trace of perfume, something that hinted of wildflowers. In her hand, she held her empty wineglass. My staring must have given her pause, because she wrinkled her nose slightly. “Too much?” Her voice was enough to bring me out of my stupor. “No,” I said. “You are…stunning.” “Thank you.” She smiled, looking almost shy. “I know it’s not true, but I appreciate it.” “I mean it,” I said, and all at once, I knew: This is what I wanted; I wanted Natalie, not just for tonight, but for a lifetime of days and nights like the one we were having right now. The feeling was undeniable, and I suddenly understood what my grandfather must have felt when he first saw Rose in front of the drugstore so long ago. I am in love with her, a voice echoed clearly in my mind. It felt slightly surreal, and yet truer than anything I’d ever known. But I also heard that warning voice again, telling me to end things now, before they became even more serious. To make things easier for both of us. The cautionary voice was only a whisper, though, fading before the surge of my feelings. This is what it’s like, I thought. This is what my grandfather was talking about. Through it all, Natalie stayed quiet, but for the first time, I knew what she was thinking. I could see in her radiant smile that she was feeling exactly the same way about me. * * * I forced myself to turn away as Natalie glided onto the porch. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Would you like another glass? I think I’d like one.” “Just half,” she murmured. “I’ll be right back.” In the kitchen, it felt like I was finally able to exhale. I tried to get hold of myself, focusing on the simple act of pouring the wine as a means of slowing things down. I somehow made it to the back porch holding the two glasses, trying desperately to hide my inner turmoil. I handed her the wine. “We can eat whenever you’re ready. I still have to sear your tuna, but that won’t take long.” “Do you need help?” “There are a few things in the refrigerator and the oven, but let me start your tuna first, okay?” At the grill, I unwrapped the tuna, alert to Natalie’s approach. She stood close, enveloping me in the smell of her perfume. “How do you like your tuna?” I asked robotically. “Rare or medium rare?” “Rare,” she said. “I mixed up some soy sauce and wasabi for you.” “Aren’t you something?” she asked in a husky drawl, nudging me slightly, the feeling making me light-headed. I really, truly have to get hold of myself. After checking the heat, I put the tuna on the grill. Natalie took that as her cue, returning to the kitchen to bring the other dishes to the table. I looked over my shoulder. “Could you bring me your plate? For your tuna?” “Of course,” she said, sauntering toward me. I plated the tuna and we walked to the table. As she took her seat, she nodded toward the food. “You made enough for four people,” she observed. Then, leaning forward, she added, “I had a really nice time on the boat today. I’m glad you asked me to come.” “A perfect day,” I agreed. We served up, passing various sides back and forth with easy familiarity. The conversation roamed from the alligators and the eagles and life in Florida, to the places we wanted to visit one day. Her eyes sparkled with hidden fire, making me feel intensely alive. How had I fallen in love with her so quickly, without even being aware of it? Afterward, she helped me bring the dishes to the kitchen and put the leftovers away. When we finished, we returned to the porch railing and stared toward the creek, my shoulder nearly touching hers. The music was still playing, a melancholy Fleetwood Mac ballad. Though I wanted to slip my arm around her, I didn’t. She cleared her throat before finally raising her eyes to meet mine. “There’s something I should probably tell you,” she said. Her tone was soft but serious, and I felt my stomach contract. I already knew what she was going to say. “You’re seeing someone else,” I said. She was absolutely still. “How did you know?” “I didn’t. But I suspected.” I stared at her. “Does it really matter?” “I suppose it doesn’t.” “Is it serious?” I asked, hating that I wanted to know. “Yes,” she said. She turned away, unable to meet my eyes. “But it’s not what you probably think.” “How long have you been together?” “A few years,” she answered. “Do you love him?” She seemed to struggle with her answer. “I know I loved him at one time. And until a couple of weeks ago, I thought I still did, but then…” She ran her hands through her hair before turning to face me. “I met you. Even on that first night when we talked right here, I knew that I was attracted to you. Honestly, it terrified me. But as scared as I was, and as wrong as I knew it was, there was part of me that wanted to spend time with you. I tried to pretend the feeling wasn’t there; I told myself to ignore it and forget about you. As small a town as New Bern is, I hardly ever go out, so it was unlikely I’d ever see you again. But then…you were at the farmers’ market. And I knew exactly why you were there. And all those feelings bubbled up again.” She closed her eyes, something weary in the slump of her shoulders. “I saw you walking,” she said. “After you bought a coffee. I just happened to be leaving the market, and there you were. I told myself to let it go. Let you go. But the next thing I knew, I was walking in the same direction and I saw you go into the park.” “You followed me?” “It felt like I didn’t have a choice. It was like something else—or someone else—was propelling me forward. I…I wanted to get to know you even better.” Despite the seriousness of her words, I smiled. “Why did you accuse me of following you?” “Panic,” she admitted. “Confusion. Shame. Take your pick.” “You’re a good actress.” “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know why I couldn’t say what I’d hoped to say. We fell so easily into talking about other things…and when you offered to show me the beehives, I knew I had to accept. I tried to convince myself that it meant nothing, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. And it just kept happening…with dinner in Beaufort, and the boat, and now this. Every time I’m with you, I tell myself that I shouldn’t, that we should stop seeing each other. And every time, the words never come.” “Until now.” She nodded, her lips a tight line, and my throat constricted in the silence that followed. Instinctively, I found myself reaching for her hand, felt her fingers stiffen and then, finally, relax. I gently turned her to face me. With my other hand, I reached up and caressed her cheek. “Look at me,” I whispered. When she slowly lifted her gaze, I went on. “Do you really want to leave right now?” At my words, her eyes moistened. Her jaw trembled slightly, but she didn’t pull away. “Yes,” she whispered. And then, with a swallow, she squeezed her eyes shut. “No.” In the background, the strains of a song whose name I had forgotten drifted through the air. The porch light cast a golden glow over her sun-kissed skin. I inched forward, placing my other hand on her hip, noting the confusion and fear and love in her expression, then put my arms around her waist. Her eyes were locked on mine as our bodies came together, and I could feel her quiver as I began to caress her back. Beneath the thin fabric of her dress, her skin felt hot, and I was intensely aware of the curves of her body as it pressed against my own. She felt so good to me—undeniably real, elemental even, as if we had been forged from the same matter. I inhaled the scent of her, unable to stay silent. “I love you, Natalie,” I whispered. “And I don’t want you to ever leave.” The words somehow made the feeling even more real, and I suddenly felt the possibility of a lifetime together. I knew I would do anything to make things work between us, even if that meant staying in New Bern. I could switch my residency to East Carolina University, which was less than an hour from my grandfather’s home; I could even give up the practice of medicine altogether. The alternative was a future without her in it, and in that instant, there was nothing more important than remaining with this woman, now and forever. By her expression, I knew she recognized the intensity of what I was feeling. Though it may have frightened her, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into me and twined her arms around my neck as she rested her head on my shoulder. I could feel her breasts, soft and full, press against me. She inhaled and slowly let out her breath, a kind of release. “I love you, too, Trevor,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t, and I know I can’t, but I do.” She lifted her head from my shoulder as my lips met her neck. Her skin felt as delicate as silk under the tip of my tongue. With a groan, she pulled me even closer, and I finally moved my lips toward hers. I kissed her, reveling in the tentative fluttering of her lips as she kissed me back; when my mouth opened, I felt hers open in response and our tongues touched, the feeling as exquisite as anything I’d ever known. My hands began to explore her body, tenderly tracing her stomach, then the side of her breast, trailing down her hip, already memorizing the feel of her body. Through it all, I was conscious of my love for her, coupled with a riptide of desire more powerful than I’d ever felt before. I wanted all of her. When I finally pulled back slightly, our bodies still tight against each other, her eyes were half-closed, her mouth parted in sensual anticipation. Then, in a motion that felt utterly natural, I encircled her hand with my own and took a small step backward. Her eyes stayed on mine, and with a gentle tug, I led her inside, toward the bedroom.